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.’
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.
‘Drink up,’ he said cheerfully.
She took it with nerveless fingers but did not drink. Instead she made her voice work, though it sounded like creaky hinges. ‘Mr Vasilikos, I cannot possibly go through with this! It’s very...kind...’ she almost choked on the word ‘...of you, but...but...no, I can’t. It’s out of the question. Impossible. Unthinkable.’ She swallowed. Made herself look at him. ‘Unthinkable,’ she said again, trying desperately to put a note of finality into her strangled voice.
It did not work. He simply gave her a straight look. She’d reverted, he could see, to having that grim expression on her face she’d had when he’d gone to Haughton to view it. It didn’t suit her—beetling her monobrow and pulling heavily at her features.
‘Why?’ He gave her an encouraging smile. ‘You’ll enjoy it, I promise you.’
She swallowed again. ‘I’m not, Mr Vasilikos, a party animal.’ There was strain in her voice, as if she were forcing herself to speak. ‘I think that’s pretty obvious.’
He was undeterred. ‘It will do you good,’ he said blandly.
A knock on the door diverted him and he went to open it. Lunch had arrived.
‘Come and sit down,’ invited Max, and gestured to the table once all the food had been laid out for them and the servers had departed.
Involuntarily, Ellen felt hungry suddenly. She also realised she must have gulped down half the sherry, for there was a taste of alcohol in her throat. She’d better eat something now...
I’ll eat lunch, then head off to the station and get home. Maybe if I write to the charity director he’ll consider my application anyway.
Because doing what Max was so ludicrously suggesting was out of the question—just totally out of the question.
Thank God he hadn’t mentioned me going to the ball in front of Chloe. She’d have had a field day, sneering and mocking me. Laughing like a hyena at the thought of me dressed up for an evening with Max Vasilikos!
Cold snaked down her spine as she made a start on her meal. It was delicious, she noticed absently—a seafood terrine with a saffron sauce, and keeping warm an entrée of lamb fillet. Hunger spiked in her and she tucked in. From the other end of the table Max glanced at her. It was good, he realised, to see a woman eating well. Not that it would put any fat on her—he knew that now. Not with a toned, sleek body like hers. Memory leapt in his head at just how toned and sleek her body was, and how it was that he’d discovered the amazing truth about this woman he’d crassly assumed was overweight.
‘Did you go running this morning?’ he heard himself enquire.
She looked up. ‘I run every morning,’ she said. ‘Plus I use the school gym and the pool. Taking Games lessons also keeps me pretty active.’
‘Hockey?’ Max asked interestedly.
She shook her head. ‘Lacrosse. A much better game!’ There was a note of enthusiasm in her voice that even her dismay at Max Vasilikos’s absurd notion of taking her to a ball—a ball, for heaven’s sake!—could not squash.
Well, she wouldn’t be going to any ball—with or without him, tonight or any other night—so there was no point worrying about it. She would just put it out of her head, enjoy this delicious lunch, and then head for the station. Maybe she’d look in at the Natural History Museum in South Kensington, get some more ideas for her Geography classes, pick up some learning material for her pupils. Yes, that was what she would do.
Relaxing
