But the very last thing his stepfather had wanted was to accept his wife’s bastard into his family. All he’d wanted was a wife to be a skivvy, an unpaid drudge to work in his restaurant in a little tourist town on a resort island in the Aegean. Max had spent his childhood and teenage years helping her, keeping the taverna going while his stepfather played host to his customers, snapping his fingers at Max to wait at tables while his mother cooked endlessly.
The day his mother had died—of exhaustion as much as the lung disease that had claimed her—Max had walked out, never to return. He’d taken the ferry to Athens, his eyes burning not just with grief for his mother’s death, but with a fierce, angry determination to make his own way in the world. And make it a glittering way. Nothing would stop him. He would overcome all obstacles, with determination driving him ever onwards.
Five years of slog in the construction industry and finally he’d saved enough from his wages to make his first property purchase—a derelict farmhouse that, with the sweat of his brow, he’d restored and sold to a German second-home-owner, making enough profit to buy two more properties. And so it had begun. The Vasilikos property empire had snowballed into the global enterprise it now was. His tightened mouth twisted into a caustic smile of ruthless satisfaction. It even included his stepfather’s taverna—picked up for a song when his stepfather’s idleness had bankrupted him.
Max’s expression changed abruptly as his sat-nav indicated that he’d arrived at his destination. Manoeuvring between two large, imposing stone gate pillars, he headed slowly along a lengthy drive flanked by woodland and massed rhododendrons that in turn gave way to a gravelled carriage sweep alongside the frontage of the house. He slowed down, taking in the vista in front of him, feeling satisfaction shaping inside him.
The photos hadn’t deceived—everything they’d promised was here. The house was nestled into its landscaped grounds, the mellow stonework a warm honey colour, and sunshine glanced off the mullioned windows. The stone porch with its gnarled oak door was flanked by twisted wisteria, bare at this time of year, but with the promise of the show to come. Already in bloom, however, were ranks of golden daffodils, marching thickly along the herbaceous borders on either side of the porch.
Max’s sense of satisfaction deepened. It looked good—more than good. Not too large, not too grand, but elegant and gracious, and steeped in the long centuries of its existence. An English country house, yes, built for landowners and gentry, but also inviting, its scale domestic and pleasing. More than a grand house—a home.
Could it become my home? Could I see myself living here?
He frowned slightly. Why was he thinking such things?
Have I reached the age where I’m starting to think of settling down? Is that it?
Settling down? That was something he’d never thought of with any woman—certainly not with Tyla. She was like him: rootless, working all over the world.
Maybe that’s why we suited each other—we had that in common.
Well, even if that had been true enough at the time, it hadn’t been sufficient to stop him ending things with her. Her absorption in her own beauty and desirability had become tiresome in the end—and now she was busy beguiling her latest leading man, a Hollywood A-lister. Max wished her well with it.
So maybe I need a new relationship? Maybe I’m in search of novelty? Something different—?
He gave himself a mental shake. He wasn’t here to ponder his private life. He was here to make a simple business decision—whether to buy this property or not for his extensive portfolio.
Engaging gear again, he crunched forward over the gravel, taking the car around to the back of the house. He drew to a halt and got out of the car, again liking what he saw. The rear façade, built as servants’ quarters, might not have the elegance of the front section of the house, but the open cobbled courtyard was attractive, bordered by outhouses on two sides and prettied up with tubs of flowers, and a wooden bench positioned in the sunshine by the kitchen door.
His approval rating of the house went up yet another notch. He strolled towards the door, to ask if it was okay to leave his car there, but just as he was about to knock it was yanked open, and someone hefting a large wooden basket and a bulging plastic bin bag cannoned straight into him.
A Greek expletive escaped him and he stepped back, taking in whoever had barged so heavily into him. She was female, he could see, and though she might be categorised as ‘young’ she had little else that he could see to recommend her to his sex. She was big, bulky, with a mop of dark bushy hair yanked back off her face into some kind of ponytail. She wore a pair of round glasses on her nose and her complexion was reddening unbecomingly. The dark purple tracksuit she wore was hideous, and she looked distinctly overweight, Max decided.
Despite her unprepossessing appearance, not for a moment did Max neglect his manners.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said smoothly. ‘I was seeking to enquire whether I might leave my car here.’ He paused. ‘I am expected. Max Vasilikos to see Mrs Mountford.’
The reddening female dragged her eyes from him and stared at his car, then back at him. Her cheeks flushed redder than ever. She shifted the weight of the basket on her hip but did not answer him.
‘So, is it all right to leave my car here?’ Max prompted.
With visible effort the woman nodded. She might have mumbled something as well, but whatever it was it was indistinct.
He gave a swift, courtesy-only smile. ‘Good,’ he said, dismissing her from his notice, and turned away to head around the house to the front entrance, his gaze sweeping out over the gardens as he walked. Even this early in the spring he could see that they would be beautiful as summer arrived.
Again he felt that unexpected sense of approval that was nothing to do with whether or not this place would be a profitable investment to make. He walked up to the front door—a massive, studded oak construction—hoping the interior of the house would match the charms of the exterior.
The door opened in front of him—clearly his arrival had been communicated. The female standing there could not, Max thought, have been more different from the one who’d cannoned into him at the kitchen door. She was petite, ultra-slender and immaculately styled, from her chic ash-blonde hair and perfect make-up to her well-tailored outfit whose pale blue hue matched the colour of her eyes. The fragrance of an expensive perfume wafted from her as she smiled warmly at him.
‘Mr Vasilikos—do come in!’
She stood back as Max walked in, taking in a large hall with a flagged stone floor, a cavernous fireplace, and a broad flight of stairs leading upwards. It suited the house, Max thought.
‘I’m Chloe Mountford. I’m so glad you could come.’ The daughter of the house—as he assumed she must be—was gliding towards one of the sets of double doors opening off the hall, and she threw them open with a dramatic gesture as he followed after her.
‘Mummy, it’s Mr Vasilikos,’ she announced.
Mummy? Max reminded himself that it was common in English upper crust circles for adult children to use such a juvenile form of address for their parents. Then he walked into the room. It was a double aspect drawing room, with another large but more ornate marble fireplace and a lot of furniture. The decor was pale grey and light blue, and it was clear to his experienced eyes that a top-class interior designer had been let loose in there.
He found himself conscious of a feeling of disappointment—it was all just too perfect and calculatedly tasteful—and wondered what the original decor would have looked like. The effect now was like something out of a highly glossy upmarket magazine.
I couldn’t live in this. It’s far too overdone. I’d have to change it—
The