‘We shall drink a toast,’ he announced. ‘A toast to the goddess revealed.’ He drew her away, towards the tray of champagne, opening the bottle with skilled long practice and filling the flutes to hand one to her.
Ellen took it numbly, her eyes wide, as if she was in a dream. A dream she still could not quite believe was reality after all.
Her eyes flickered back to her reflection in the mirror.
Is it really, truly me? Can it be—?
Then Max’s gloved hand was touching her wrist, lifting his own foaming glass, and she looked back at him, still with that bemused expression in her eyes, as if she dared not believe the truth of her own reflection. He held her gaze, not letting go for an instant.
‘To you,’ he said. ‘To beautiful Ellen. Beautiful, stunning Ellen!’
He took a mouthful of champagne and she did too, feeling the bubbles burst on her tongue, feeling a glow go through her that had nothing to do with champagne at all...
He smiled down at her. ‘Tonight,’ he told her, his mouth curving into an intimate smile, his lashes dipping over dark eyes lambent with expression, ‘every man will envy me—you’ll be a sensation.’
The word echoed in her head. A sudden memory stung like a wasp in her mind. She lowered her champagne glass, her fingers gripping it hard suddenly.
‘Those girls—the stylists—they said you brought Tyla Brentley here last year—that she was a sensation.’
Max heard the sudden panic in her voice, that demon of self-doubt stabbing at her again. He wanted to kick it into touch without delay. He gave a deliberately dismissive shrug. ‘Of course she was,’ he said indifferently. ‘Her fame guaranteed that. And Tyla adores men gazing at her. It flatters her insatiable vanity.’
Even as he spoke he knew his words were true. He, too, had once fed that vanity—until he’d realised that Tyla’s self-absorption meant it was impossible for her to think of anyone but herself. His wealth had been useful to her, coming as it did with the person of a male whose looks could complement her own, and she had known with her innate instinct for self-publicity that she and he together made a couple that would always draw both eyes and attention, gaining precious press coverage to help her build her career. Tyla’s belief in herself, in her own charm and beauty, had been total.
The very opposite of Ellen.
She was looking at him doubtfully still, as if she could not believe his indifference to having once squired a Hollywood film star. He wanted that doubt gone—completely—and so raised his champagne glass to his lips, deliberately letting his gaze wash over her.
‘Tyla’s got a good body—no doubt about that—but...’ And now he let something else into his gaze that he knew from long experience had an effect on all females. ‘But I can promise you that she had absolutely nothing on you. If Chloe,’ he said ‘is a tiny little Chihuahua...’ he made his voice amused, deliberately exaggerating her stepsister’s petiteness ‘...then Tyla is a...a gazelle, I guess. But you...’ Once more his gaze rested on her, sending her the message he wanted...needed...her to get. ‘You, Ellen, are a lioness!’
He grinned at her, and tilted his champagne glass to her in tribute.
‘And lionesses gobble up little dogs and antelopes for breakfast!’
He toasted her again, his eyes becoming serious now, holding hers, sending home his essential message to her, the reassurance she needed—the reassurance that he would give her whatever it took. He would make sure of that. His eyes rested on her, their expression intent. Suddenly it seemed crucially important that Ellen believed him, and believed in her own newly revealed beauty. And it was for a reason that had nothing to do with his plans for Haughton. For a reason he was only dimly aware of—and yet it seemed to be forcing itself into his consciousness with an insistence he could not ignore.
I want it for her sake—not for mine. I want it so that she can be happy—happy in her own body, finally. I want that for her.
‘Be proud of what you are,’ he told her. ‘Be happy in your body. Your fantastic body! Strong and lean and lithe—’
She felt gloved fingertips glide down the bare length of her upper arm.
‘And with great muscle tone!’ he finished approvingly.
Ellen’s eyes flickered uncertainly. ‘Maybe I need a shawl over my arms,’ she ventured. ‘I’m too muscular—’
Max rolled his eyes, shaking his head. ‘Uh-uh! Remember—think lioness!’ He let his gaze liquefy again, knowing the effect it would have, the effect he wanted right now. ‘Think Artemis. Think goddess. Think beautiful...’ There was a sudden husk in his voice that he had not put there deliberately at all, but which came of its own powerful accord. ‘Very, very beautiful.’
The wash of his warm gaze over her was instinctive, and he felt it resonate with a warming of his blood, too, that surged in his body powerfully, unstoppably.
His eyes were holding hers, not letting her go. Ellen felt her breath catch in her breast, felt her heartbeat give a sudden surge, felt the surface of her skin tighten as if an electric charge were spreading out through its whole expanse, radiating out from her quickened heart rate. She could feel her pupils flare, her lips part—felt faint, almost, heard drumming in her ears...
The world seemed to slow down all around her.
And then the sound of the suite’s doorbell ringing broke the moment. For a second Max just went on staring, unable to relinquish his gaze on the woman whose beauty he had revealed to her—and to himself. Then, with an exclamation in Greek, he dropped his hands, strode to the door and yanked it open.
As he saw who it was he relaxed immediately. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Come in!’
Ellen turned, dazed, her pulse hectic, still blinking, breathless from that strange, powerful moment that had hummed like charged plasma between them. She saw a neatly suited man walk in, a briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. She blinked again. What on earth...?