lacrosse somewhat violent?’ He frowned.
She shook her head again. ‘You’re thinking of men’s lacrosse. That can be vicious! But then so can men’s hockey. Girls play a gentler game. But it’s fast and furious for all that. I’ve always loved it. Nothing to beat it.’ There was open enthusiasm in her voice now.
‘Were you in the team when you were at school?’ Max asked.
It was good to hear her speak without that note of almost panic in her voice that had been there as she’d reacted to his mention of the evening’s ball, and he knew it was necessary for him to back off for a while, let her calm down again. Her forbidding expression was ebbing, too, and that had to be good.
Besides, it was, he realised, something of a pleasant novelty to be lunching with a female in his private suite and not have her endlessly making doe eyes at him, batting her eyelashes, trying to flirt and get his attention. With Ellen there was no such tedious predictability. Instead it was refreshing to talk to a woman about keeping fit, exercise and sport—all of which he enjoyed robustly himself. And she was clearly in her element on such subjects, knowledgeable and confident.
She nodded, then answered him. ‘On the wing—loads of running there.’
He glanced at her speculatively. ‘What about Chloe? Was she sporty?’
He knew perfectly well she wouldn’t have been, but he wanted to hear what Ellen would say about the stepsister she so glaringly resented. Would she despise her for not being in the team?
A tight look had formed in Ellen’s eyes. ‘Chloe wasn’t in the sporty crowd,’ she said.
Max picked his next words with deliberate care. ‘It must have been difficult for her, joining a new school after her mother married your father. She must have looked to you to help her fit in.’
Ellen’s expression froze. Memory pushed into her head. Vivid and painful.
Chloe, with her long blonde tresses, her supercilious air of sophistication and her worldly experience of boys and smoking and alcohol and fashion and music and make-up, had been instantly accepted into a bitchy, cliquey set of girls just like her, effortlessly becoming the meanest of the mean girls, sneering at everyone else. Sneering most of all at her hulking, clumping, games-loving stepsister, who’d so stupidly tried to befriend her initially, when she’d actually believed that her father’s remarriage might bring him happiness instead of misery and ruin.
Max’s eyes rested on Ellen, seeing her expression close up. Had he hit home? he wondered. He hoped so—because it was for her own good, after all, getting her to face up to what was keeping her trapped in the bitter, resentful, narrow life she led, refusing to move on from the past.
She has to let go of her resentment against her stepfamily, stop using her share of their inheritance as a weapon against them. Stop clinging to the past instead of moving into the future. I need to bring her out of herself. Show her the world beyond the narrow confines she’s locked herself into—let her embrace it...enjoy it.
And what could be more enjoyable than a ball? A glittering, lavish affair that she might enjoy if only she would give herself a chance to do so! But for now he would not press her. For now he just wanted to keep her in this unselfconscious, relaxed zone. So he didn’t wait for an answer to his pointed comment about Chloe, but turned the subject back to an easier topic that she clearly found less uncomfortable.
‘What kind of workout routine do you do?’ he asked. ‘You must use weights, I take it?’
To his surprise she flushed that unflattering red that he’d seen all too frequently on his first visit to Haughton.
‘That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?’ she mumbled, knowing he’d have spotted her developed muscle tone—so mercilessly mocked by Chloe, who jibed at her for being more like a man than a woman—when he’d seen her in running gear. ‘But I’m good at them and I enjoy it.’
Was there a defensive note to her voice—defiance, even? If so, Max wondered why. She obviously had a fantastic physique—he’d seen that for himself, and had very much enjoyed doing so! But she was speaking again now, and he drew his mind back from that tantalising vision of her fabulous body when she’d been out running.
‘I balance weights with cardio work, obviously, but I’d rather run than cycle. Especially since it’s such a joy to run in the grounds at home—’ She broke off, a shadow in her eyes. Those glorious early-morning runs she loved to take would become a thing of the past if Haughton were wrenched from her...
‘What about rowing?’ Max asked, cutting across her anguished thoughts. ‘That’s a good combo of cardio and strength work. It’s my favourite, I admit. Though only on a machine.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘When I’m on the water I’d rather swim, sail or windsurf.’
She made herself smile. ‘Well, you’ve got the weather for that in Greece!’ she riposted lightly, glad to be away from the subject of her overdeveloped muscles, which so embarrassed her. She knew she was being stupid, feeling self-conscious about it with a man who couldn’t care less what she looked like as a woman. Inevitably she was invisible to him in that respect. Much less stressful to blank all that and just talk to him as she’d been doing, about sport and exercise, without any connotations about the impact on her appearance.
‘It must be great not to need a wetsuit,’ she said enviously.
‘Agreed.’ Max smiled, glad that he was getting her to relax again.
Deliberately he kept the conversation going along convivial lines, asking her about her experiences in water sport, which seemed to be mainly focussed on school trips to the Solent—definitely wetsuits required. Equally deliberately he waxed lyrical about how enjoyable it was to pursue water sports in warmer climes, recommending several spots he knew well. He wanted to open her mind to the possibilities of enjoying the wider world—once she had freed herself from the self-inflicted confines of her past, stopped clinging to the house he wanted her to let go of.
But with the arrival of the dessert course he steered the conversation back to the reason for her presence here.
As they helped themselves to tarte au citron Max was pleased to see Ellen tucking in with obvious enjoyment. It’s a sensual pleasure, enjoying food. The thought was in his head before he could stop it. And the corollary that went with it. There are more sensual pleasures than food for her to enjoy...
The words hovered in his head, but he put them firmly aside. They were inappropriate. All he was doing was introducing her to the delights that could be hers if she embraced the world instead of hiding away from it.
Starting tonight.
He pushed his empty plate away and glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve time for coffee, then a team of stylists are arriving and I’ll leave you to them.’ He smiled at Ellen.
Her fork promptly clattered to the plate. She was looking at him, her former ease vanished, her expression now one of panic. Panic that changed to a kind of gritty stoniness. He’d seen that look before, and knew it meant she was locking herself down into herself again.
She began to speak, her voice as tight as her expression as she bit the words out. ‘Mr Vasilikos—look, I’m sure you mean well, in your own way, but I really, really don’t want to go to this ball tonight! It would be...’ she swallowed ‘...horrendous.’
He
