He pulled his mind away again. He did not want to remember his miserable childhood and downtrodden mother. Nor was he interested in the tense convolutions of the Mountford family either.
He set down his empty cup. ‘Before I leave,’ he said, ‘I’ll take a look around the gardens and the outbuildings to the rear. No, don’t get up—’ This to Chloe, who had started to stand. He smiled. ‘My footwear is more suitable for the outdoors than yours,’ he explained, glancing at her stylish high heels and not adding that he preferred to keep his own pace, and would rather not have her endless panegyrics about the charms of a property he had already decided would be his.
Though it was only prudent to check out the areas he had not yet seen, he did not envisage there being anything so dreadful as to make him change his mind.
He strode from the room, and as he shut the door behind him he heard animated conversation break out behind him. To his ears it sounded...jubilant. Well, his own mood was just as buoyant. Satisfaction filled him, and a warm, proprietorial sense of well-being. He glanced around the hallway—soon to be his hallway.
He paused in his stride. A family had lived here for generations. Emotion kicked in him. It was an emotion he had never felt before, and one that startled him with its presence—shocked him even more with his certainty about it. The words were in his head, shaping themselves, taking hold. Taking root.
And now it will be my home—for my family.
The family of his own that he’d never had...the family he would have.
A pang stabbed at him. If his poor mother had survived longer how he would have loved to bring her here—make a home for her here, safe from the harshness of her life, cosseting her in the luxury he could now afford to bestow upon her.
But I’ll do that for your grandchildren—give them the happy upbringing you could not give me—and I’ll feel you smile and be glad! I’ve come a long way—a long, long way—and now I’ve found the place I want to call my home. I’ll find the right woman for me and bring her here.
Who that woman would be he didn’t know, but she was out there somewhere. He just had to find her. Find her and bring her here.
Home.
He started to walk forward again, heading for the baize door that led through to the back section of the house. He would check it out, then go out into the courtyard area, take a look at the outbuildings before making his way around to the gardens and exploring them.
He was just walking down the passageway towards the back door when a voice from the open doorway to what he could see was a large stone-flagged kitchen stopped him.
‘Mr Vasilikos! I need to speak to you!’
He halted, turning his head. Ellen Mountford was standing there and her face was stony. Very stony indeed. Annoyance tensed him. He did not want this. He wanted to get outside and complete his inspection of the place.
‘What about?’ he replied with steely politeness.
‘It’s very important.’
She backed away, indicating that he should step into the kitchen.
Impatiently Max strode in, taking in an impression of a large room with old-fashioned wooden cupboards, a long scrubbed wooden table, a flagstone floor and a vast old-fashioned range cooker along one wall. The warmth from the oven enveloped him, and there was, he realised, a cosy, comfortable, lived-in feel to the space. No top interior designer had been let loose in here, that was for sure—and he was glad of it.
He turned his attention to Ellen Mountford. She’d taken up a position on the far side of the kitchen table and her hands were pressed down over the back of a chair. Tension was in every line of her body, and her expression was both stony and determined.
He frowned. Now what?
‘There’s something you have to kno
w!’
The words burst from her, and he realised with a deepening of his frown that she was in a state of extreme agitation and nervousness.
He levelled his gaze at her. She seemed to be steeling herself after her dramatic outburst. ‘And that is...?’ he prompted.
He watched her take a gulping breath. Her cheeks seemed pale now—as pale as chalk. Not a trace of the colour that had so unflatteringly rushed there whenever he’d looked at her before.
‘Mr Vasilikos, there’s no easy way to tell you this, and for that I’m sorry, but you’ve had a completely wasted journey. Whatever my stepmother has led you to believe, Haughton is not for sale. And it never will be!’
CHAPTER THREE
MAX STILLED. THEN deliberately he let his gaze rest on her. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, and he made no effort to make his voice sound anything less than the way he intended it to sound—quelling—‘you might like to explain what you mean by that.’
Ellen swallowed, had to force herself to speak. To say what she had to say. ‘I own a third of Haughton and I have no wish to sell.’