trousers neatly hugged her trim hips, and a casual cashmere sweater in oatmeal superbly moulded her generous breasts. A long jacket and a swish leather handbag completed the outfit.
Behind her came the sales assistant, with more clothes, and they all totted up to a good half-dozen or more capacious carrier bags.
His driver climbed out of the car to put the bags in the boot as Max helped Ellen into the back of the car.
She was in a daze—no doubt about it. She’d handed over her credit card, wincing at the huge total, but then tightening her mouth in defiance. Another watercolour would have to be sold—but this time she would get the benefit of it.
And it was money well spent—she’d seen that the moment she’d taken in her reflection, seeing not frumpy, lumpy Elephant Ellen but a tall, good-looking, athletic, fashionably dressed woman who could stride through the world with assurance and poise. It was a good feeling—a brilliant feeling!
A bubble of happiness rose in her, as if she’d just drunk a glass of champagne. She was going to enjoy this—enjoy everything! Including the novelty of a ride in a helicopter.
Her eyes widened in excitement as the noisy machine rose into the air, skating high above the River Thames. London became increasingly miniature, and then was left behind as the countryside approached. She gazed spellbound as they flew, then circled over the property Max wanted to assess.
It was another large country house, Victorian gothic in style, and far larger than Haughton. Only then did a shadow cross her eyes, for it reminded her of the danger to her home. Oh, he could buy anywhere he liked—so why insist on buying the one place in the world she so desperately loved?
Conflicting emotions swirled in her. Max had been so good to her, and even though she knew why he was doing it, it did not detract from the gift he had given her.
I will always, always be grateful to him.
It was a gratitude she voiced yet again that evening, as they dined in the Michelin-starred restaurant at the hotel.
‘All I’ve done, Ellen,’ he said, and smiled, ‘is show you what was always there—that’s all. You’ve always been like this—but you hid it. And now you don’t any more. It’s as simple as that.’
His eyes washed over her, liking what they saw. She was wearing the teal-blue dress he’d instinctively known would suit her, and it did—much to his satisfaction—and her hair was loosely gathered into a chignon at the back of her head. Her make-up—another purchase that day—was not as striking as it had been for the ball, but it gave her smoky eyes and long lashes and a soft, tender mouth...
He dragged his gaze away, returning to his study of the wine list. The arrival of the sommelier diverted him some more, and when he was done with his discussion and selection he turned back—to find Ellen looking around the dining room and getting the attention from male diners that she well deserved. He was glad to see it—it would do her good.
All the same, he reached out to touch her arm, with an atavistic instinct to show the other males she was spoken for.
Her gaze came back to him. ‘So, will you buy that place you looked at this afternoon?’ she asked.
As she’d glanced around the room she’d become conscious that she was being looked at by other men, and whilst it had given her a little thrill of confidence in her new appearance it had also, with her not being used to it, been somewhat disconcerting. She was grateful to have Max with her. He seemed...reassuring.
How odd that Max Vasilikos should seem reassuring to me—yet it’s true.
A thought flickered through her mind. Could this man who had wrought this seismic revolution within her, with whom she’d spent the most amazing twenty-four hours in her life and still counting, really be the same man who was threatening Haughton, threatening to wrest from her all that she held most dear? It was hard to think of it.
‘Maybe.’ He was answering her now. ‘Of course I’ll need to look over it in person. But it ticks a lot of boxes. It’s on at a good price, I like the look of it and it’s close to London.’
‘Much closer than Haughton!’ she heard herself say quickly.
Max’s eyes veiled. ‘Haughton is quite different,’ he said. ‘I have...other plans for it.’
‘If you manage to buy it!’ Ellen riposted, her chin going up.
But even as she spoke she wished she hadn’t. She didn’t want to talk about Haughton, about how he wanted to buy it. For now—just for now—she only wanted to enjoy the present, this wonderful time with him. Nothing more than that. All the difficult, painful stuff could be left to one side. For now at least.
He gave a guarded smile. ‘As you say,’ he murmured, offering nothing more than that.
The sommelier returned with his choice of wine and he busied himself sampling it, nodding his approval.
He glanced across at Ellen. ‘So,’ he said, ‘did you enjoy the helicopter ride?’
‘It was amazing!’ she exclaimed. ‘A completely new experience.’
His long lashes dipped over his dark eyes. ‘Well, new experiences are what you should be having, Ellen. Lots and lots of amazing new experiences!’
Was there a subtext to what he was saying? He was conscious of it. He was determined for her to have experiences with him... But he also wanted to indicate to her how her life could, and would, open up once she was free—not just of the chains that had made her think herself plain and unattractive, but of those that bound her to a house that had become a weapon against her stepmother and stepsister.
‘Tell me,’ he said, taking the subject further, ‘when were you last abroad?’
She thought. ‘Um... I took a school team to the Netherlands in the autumn term,’ she recollected. ‘And I did a field trip to Iceland with some sixth-formers—that was extraordinary. The geology and geography is breathtaking!’
Skilfully Max drew her out, and then equally skilfully drew her into contemplating where in the world she might yet like to go, exchanging his own views and experiences with her as their food arrived and they started on their meal.
An idea was forming in his head, but it would be premature to voice it now. He could sound her out, however, in general...
‘And what about sun, sea and sand—tropical beaches and all that?’ he ventured. ‘Or did you do all that as a child in holidays with your parents?’
She shook her head. ‘No, my mother preferred cultural destinations—so I’ve been to places like Florence and Paris and so on. Done all the museums and art galleries. I’m not sure I’d like to go back to those places again,’ she said. ‘They’d have sad memories for me now.’ A shadowed look permeated her expression.
He nodded in sympathy. ‘I’ve never gone back to where I was raised except once. And that,’ he said, ‘was to buy out the taverna my mother once slaved
