A Cinderella For The Greek. Julia James

as they settled into lunch it was clear to Max that he and Ellen Mountford were the only ones tucking in. That was a shame, because the roast chicken was delicious—the traditional ‘Sunday lunch’ that the English loved so much and did so well. But neither Pauline Mountford nor her daughter did anything more than pick at their food.

      Max found himself annoyed. Didn’t they realise that being too thin was as undesirable as the opposite? His eyes flickered to Ellen Mountford again. Was she overweight? Her blouse might be straining over her arms, but her jawline was firm, and there was no jowliness or softening under the chin.

      She must have noticed him glancing at her, for suddenly he saw again that tide of unlovely colour washing up into her face. That most certainly did nothing for her. He drew his glance away. Why was he thinking about how to improve the appearance of Ellen Mountford? She was of no interest to him—how could she possibly be?

      ‘What are your plans for the contents of the house?’ he asked his hostess. ‘Will you take the paintings with you when you sell?’

      A sound that might have been a choke came from Ellen Mountford, and Max’s eyes flicked back to her. The red tide had vanished, and now there was the same tightness in her face as he’d seen when her stepmother had mentioned her bereavement.

      ‘Very possibly not,’ Pauline Mountford was answering him. ‘They do rather go with the house, do you not think? Of course,’ she added pointedly, ‘they would all need to be independently valued.’

      Max’s eyes swept the walls. He had no objection to having the artwork—or, indeed, any of the original furniture. The pieces that had been acquired via the interior designer were, however, dispensable. His gaze rested on an empty space on the wall behind Chloe Mountford, where the wallpaper was slightly darker.

      ‘Sold,’ said Ellen Mountford tersely. The look on her face had tightened some more.

      Chloe Mountford gave a little laugh. ‘It was a gruesome still life of a dead stag. Mummy and I hated it!’

      Max gave a polite smile, but his gaze was on Chloe’s stepsister. She didn’t seem pleased about the loss of the dead stag painting. Then his attention was recalled by his hostess.

      ‘Do tell us, Mr Vasilikos, where will you be off to next? Your work must take you all over the world, I imagine.’ She smiled encouragingly at him as she sipped at her wine.

      ‘The Caribbean,’ he replied. ‘I am developing a resort there on one of the lesser known islands.’

      Chloe’s pale blue eyes lit up. ‘I adore the Caribbean!’ she exclaimed enthusiastically. ‘Mummy and I spent Christmas in Barbados last winter. We stayed at Sunset Bay, of course. There really isn’t anything to compare, is there?’ she invited, after naming the most prestigious resort on the island.

      ‘It’s superb in what it does,’ Max agreed. The famous high-profile hotel was nothing like the resort he was developing, and the remote island was nothing like fashionable Barbados.

      ‘Do tell us more,’ invited Chloe. ‘When will the grand opening be? I’m sure Mummy and I would love to be amongst the very first guests.’

      Max could see Ellen Mountford’s expression hardening yet again with clear displeasure. He wondered at it. Out of nowhere, memory shafted like an arrow. His stepfather had been perpetually displeased by anything he’d ever said—so much that he’d learnt to keep his mouth shut when his stepfather was around.

      He dragged his mind away from the unhappy memory, back to the present. ‘Its style will be very different from Sunset Bay,’ he said. ‘The idea is for it to be highly eco-friendly, focussing on being self-sustaining. Rainwater showers and no air conditioning,’ he elucidated, with a slight smile.

      ‘Oh, dear...’ Pauline shook her head regretfully. ‘I don’t think that would suit me. Too much heat is very trying, I find.’

      ‘It won’t be for everyone, I agree,’ Max acknowledged tactfully. He turned towards Ellen. ‘What do you think—would it attract you? Wood-built lodges open to the fresh air and meals cooked on open fires in the evenings?’ He found himself unexpectedly wanting to draw her into the conversation, to hear her views. They would be different from her hothouse stepsister’s, he was sure.

      ‘Sounds like glamping,’ she blurted in her abrupt manner.

      Max’s eyebrows drew together. ‘Glamping?’ he echoed, mystified.

      ‘Glamorous camping. I believe that’s the contraction it’s for,’ she elucidated shortly. ‘Upmarket camping for people who like the idea of going back to nature but not the primitive reality of it.’

      Max gave a wry smile. ‘Hmm...that might be a good description for my resort,’ he acknowledged.

      A tinkling laugh came from Chloe. ‘I’d say “glamorous camping” is a contradiction in terms! It would be luxury for Ellen, though—she runs camps for London kids. A million miles from upmarket. Totally basic.’

      She gave a dramatic shudder, and Max heard the note of dismissal in her voice.

      ‘Adventure breaks,’ Ellen said shortly. ‘The children enjoy it. They think it’s exciting. Some of them have never been into the countryside.’

      ‘Ellen’s “good works”!’ Pauline said lightly. ‘I’m sure it’s very uplifting.’

      ‘And muddy!’ trilled Chloe with a little laugh, and sought to catch Max’s eye to get his agreement.

      But Max’s attention was on Ellen. It was unexpected to hear that she ran such breaks for deprived inner-city children, given her own privileged background. He realised that he was paying her more attention.

      ‘Do you hold them here?’ he asked interestedly.

      If so, it was something he might keep on with—adding it to the extensive list of charitable enterprises that were his personal payback for the good fortune that had enabled him to attain the wealth he had.

      ‘They’re held at my school, nearby. We set up camp on the playing fields,’ came the answer. ‘That way the children can use the sports pavilion, including the showers, and have use of the swimming pool as well. So they get the fun of camping, plus the run of the facilities of a private school.’

      As she spoke for the first time Max saw something light up in Ellen Mountford’s eyes, changing her expression. Instead of the stony, closed look that alternated only with the tomato-red flaring of her cheeks when he paid her attention there was actually some animation, some enthusiasm. It made a significant difference to her features, he realised with surprise. They seemed lighter, somehow, less heavy, and not even those wretched spectacles could hide that.

      Then, as if aware of his regard, he saw her face close down again and she grabbed at her wine glass, that telltale colour washing up into her face, destroying the transformation he’d started to glimpse. For some reason it annoyed him. He opened his mouth to make a reply, to ask another question, see whether he could get back that momentary animation, draw her out again. But his hostess was speaking now, and he had to turn his attention to her.

      ‘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