A Will, a Wish...a Proposal

A Will, a Wish...a Proposal Jessica Gilmore Will you marry me?Ellie Scott stopped believing in fairy tales three years ago. Now she’s living by her own rules, and nothing will distract her—especially not hotshot executive Max Loveday. They might be bound together by her godmother’s will, but Ellie’s determined to ignore the sparks lighting up her heart every time Max is near!Max is used to women walking away when they realize they can’t change him. But beautiful, vulnerable Ellie makes him want to be a different man, and with four little words he’ll prove it! “If you want to hold my hand, Ellie, then all you have to do is take it.” Max stopped and turned to face her. There was a simmering heat in his eyes. She gaped, trying to formulate some response, to deny it. But she was mute. “But, Ellie?” There was a roughness to his voice, as if he was trying very hard to sound calm. She held his gaze despite the weakness in her knees, the tremors shivering through her. Despite the fear she was making a mistake, the urge to retreat was almost as strong as the urge to surge forward. “Yes?” “If you do, then I will kiss you. Maybe not here, in front of all these people, maybe not as we walk, but sometime, at some point, I will kiss you. And you—” his eyes dropped to her mouth, an almost physical caress “—you’ll kiss me back. Are you ready for that, Ellie?” A Will, a Wish…a Proposal Jessica Gilmore www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) A former au pair, bookseller, marketing manager and seafront trader, JESSICA GILMORE now works for an environmental charity in York. Married with one daughter, one fluffy dog and two dog-loathing cats, she spends her time avoiding housework and can usually be found with her nose in a book. Jessica writes emotional romance with a hint of humor, a splash of sunshine and a great deal of delicious food—and equally delicious heroes. To Jo, Rose and Sam— the best godmothers any girl could ask for! Thank you for all the love and support you give my girl, she is very, very lucky to have you (as am I!). Love you all very much, Jessica x Contents Cover (#u8b6ea834-cdd4-5bc3-9e08-9e8918dfea96) Introduction (#u7906e091-9e4e-577f-ae5c-d0656daac5d8) Title Page (#u00a49397-aff0-51af-84f9-8cabd9f6645a) About the Author (#u4a2370b6-4f48-5dcc-823d-14c87cf2c00a) Dedication (#uc5960607-c4b7-5442-8771-b987e32e23d0) CHAPTER ONE (#u01e579dc-c234-5ea2-bc67-8b5a29a6ce19) CHAPTER TWO (#ucda87348-5845-5320-b25b-719751ef8c99) CHAPTER THREE (#u945c53a9-65cb-5ec8-aa59-b73268929d47) CHAPTER FOUR (#ue4a5785b-f2f6-5540-b602-07d2ae2abdd9) CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo) Extract (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_21087c55-8be3-52c9-8792-9f71dfb7df3f) ‘WHAT ON EARTH were you thinking?’ Max Loveday burst into the office and shook the printed out press release in his father’s direction. True to form his father’s chair was turned away from the desk, allowing the occupant to face the window. Apparently the view over the city ‘inspired’ him. ‘What on earth is DL Media going to do with a dating app?’ More pertinently, where exactly were the millions of dollars his father had apparently paid out for the app going to come from? In the last year every budget had been squeezed and slashed to accommodate his father’s spending spree; there was no more give in the entire company. Steven Loveday swivelled the black leather chair around and looked at his son, his expression as guileless as that of a three-month-old baby. It was, Max reflected, the expression he always wore when he was up to something. And he usually was. ‘Max? What a lovely surprise.’ Steven’s voice was as rich as molasses and just as smooth. The kind of voice that oozed authority and paternal benevolence, as did the warm brown eyes and wide smile. It was a shame he didn’t have the business acumen to match the veneer. ‘When did you get back from Sydney?’ As if Max hadn’t dropped him an email the second he had landed. He tightened his grip on the press release. ‘Two hours ago.’ ‘I’m touched that you rushed over to see me but there was no need, dear boy. Take the rest of the day off.’ His father beamed at him as if he was giving Max a great treat. ‘Why don’t you go and visit your mother? Have you heard from her at all?’ ‘I can’t take the day off.’ Max refused to be diverted. He held up the piece of paper his PA had pressed into his hand the second he had walked into DL Media’s headquarters. ‘What on earth is this? Why didn’t you consult me?’ His father leaned back and stared at him, his chin propped on his steepled hands. It was a look he had probably seen in a film: the wise patriarch. ‘Max.’ There was steel in his voice. ‘I know your grandfather gave you a lot of leeway, but can I remind you this is my company now?’ Just. Max held a third outright, his father another third. But, crucially, the final third, the controlling share, was held in trust by his father until he retired. Then it would go to Max. If there was a company left by then. Or if Max didn’t ask the board for a vote of no confidence first... ‘Grandfather did not give me a lot of leeway.’ He could feel the paper crumple, his grip tightening even more as he fought to control his temper. It was so typical of his father to reduce all his years of hard work and training to some sort of glorified work experience. ‘He trusted me and trusted my judgement.’ As he never trusted you... The words were unsaid but hung in the air. ‘Look, Dad, we have a five-year plan.’ A plan his father seemed determine to ignore. ‘A plan that kept us profitable through the financial crisis. We need to focus on the core business strengths, not get distracted by...by...’ Max sought the right diplomatic words. Shiny newtoys might be accurate, but they were unlikely to help the situation. ‘By intriguing investments.’ Steven Loveday sighed, the deep breath resonating with regret. ‘The problem with your grandfather was that he had no real vision. Oh, he was a media man through and through, and he knew publishing. But books are dead, Max. It’s time for us to expand, to embrace the digital world.’ Max knew his mouth was hanging open, that he was gaping at his father with an incredulous look on his face, but his poker face was eluding him. His grandfather had had no vision? Was that truly what his father thought? ‘He took DL global,’ he managed after a long pause. ‘Made us a household name.’ A name his father seemed determined to squander. What was it they said? One generation to found, another to expand and the third to squander? It looked as if Steven Loveday was going to prove the old adage right in record time. Max’s hands curled into fists. Not if I have anything to do with it. ‘Everyone wanted this, Max. Have you seen the concept? It’s brilliant! Bored and want to go out? Just log on and see who’s free—make contact, get a reservation at a mutually convenient restaurant, book your taxi home. And if the evening goes well you can even sort out a hotel room. It’s going to revolutionise online dating.’ Possibly. But what did online dating have to do with publishing? Max began to walk up and down the thickly carpeted office floor, unable to stay standing meekly in front of his father’s desk like a schoolboy any longer. ‘But we can’t afford it. And, more crucially, it’s not core business, Dad. It doesn’t fit with the plan.’ ‘That was your grandfather’s plan, not mine. We have to move with the times, Max.’ Max bit back a sigh. ‘I know. Which is why we were the first to bring eBooks to the mainstream. Our interactive travel guides and language books are market leaders, and thanks to our subscription service our newspapers are actually in profit.’ He shouldn’t need to be explaining this to his father. Max had always known that his father would inherit the controlling share of the company, even though Steven Loveday had only played at working over the last thirty years. He also knew how hard his grandfather had struggled with that decision, how close he had come to bypassing his son altogether for his grandson. But in the end even his hard-nosed grandfather hadn’t been able to bring himself to humiliate his only child with a very public disinheriting. And now the family business was paying the price. The increasingly awkward silence was just beginning to stretch to excruciating when a loud and fast hip-hop tune blared out of the phone on his father’s desk. It was the kind of ringtone Max would expect from a streetwise fifteen-year-old, not a fifty-eight-year-old man in a hand-made suit and silk tie, but his father’s eyes lit up as he grabbed the telephone, his body swaying a little to the furious beat. ‘Sweetie?’ Max could just make out a giggle from the caller. Not that he needed to hear the voice to know who it was. The inappropriate ringtone, the soppy expression on his father’s face, the nauseating tone of his voice... It had been six months. If his father was playing true to form he should be getting bored with his latest crush by now. But then none of this latest infatuation was running true to form. Not bringing it out in the open, not leaving Max’s mother and setting up a love-nest in a Hartford penthouse... No, Steven Loveday’s little affairs of the heart were usually as brief as they were intense, but they were always, always clandestine. This...? This almost felt...well, serious. His father looked over at Max. ‘Mandy sends her love.’ Max muttered something inaudible even to himself. What was the etiquette here? Just what did you say to your father’s mistress? Especially a mistress several years younger than yourself—and your own ex-PA. She’d giggled a lot less then. To occupy himself while his father continued to croon sweet nothings down the phone, he pulled out his own phone and began to scroll through the long list of emails. As usual they were multiplying like the Hydra’s head: ten springing forth for each one he deleted. His father’s name might top the letterhead, but Max’s workload seemed to have tripled in the last year no matter how many sixteen-hour days and seven-day weeks he pulled. Delete, forward, mark for attention, delete, definitely delete... He paused. Another missive from Ellie Scott. What did Miss Prim and Proper want now? Max had developed a picture of Ellie Scott over the last two months of mostly one-sided emails. She had to be of a similar age to his recently deceased great-aunt, probably wore tweed and had those horned reading glasses. In tortoiseshell. He bet that she played bridge, golfed in sturdy brogues and breakfasted on kippers and anaemic toast. Okay, he had based her on all those old classic series featuring British spinsters of a certain age. But the bossy, imperative, clipped tone of her emails made him pretty certain he couldn’t be that far off in his estimate. And she lived to plague him. Her requests for information, agreement, input and, worst of all, his actual presence had upped from one a week to almost daily. Sure, the money his great-aunt had left to start a literary festival in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere might seem important to Miss Scott, but he had actual real work to do. At some point he was going to have to see if he could delegate or refuse the trustee post he had been bequeathed. And get somebody to sort out the house that was part of the same unwanted legacy. There was just no time for anything that didn’t involve clearing up after his father. Max’s finger didn’t even pause as he pressed ‘delete’. He moved on, reading another and another, and—hang on a minute. His eyes flicked back up the screen as he reread one, barely able to believe the words dancing in front of his eyes. Irregularity... Share of the company... Your great-aunt... Twenty-five per cent. Max blinked, casting a quick glance over at his father. Did he know? Could it possibly be true that his recently deceased great-aunt had kept hold of her twenty-five per cent of DL Media even after she had walked away from her work and her family? The same great-aunt who had left her house and belongings to him? This could change everything. Maybe Miss Scott’s luck was in. A trip to Cornwall might be exactly what the lawyer ordered. ‘Sorry about that.’ His father’s expression was a discomfiting mixture of slightly sheepish and sappy. ‘Max, I would really appreciate it if you had a word with your mother.’ Here they went again. How many times had Max been asked to broker a rapprochement in the constant battlefield that was his parents’ marriage? Every time he swore never to do it again. But someone had to be the responsible one in the family, and somehow, even when he could still measure his age in single digits, that person had had to be him. But not this time. ‘I’m sure she would rather hear from you.’ The sappy look on his dad’s face faded. He was completely sheepish now, avoiding Max’s eye and fiddling with the paperclips on his desk. ‘My attorney has told me not to speak to her directly.’ Time stopped for one long second, the office freezing like a paused scene in a movie. ‘Attorney? Dad, what on earth do you need an attorney for?’ ‘You’re going to be a big brother.’ Max stopped in the middle of a breath. He was what? ‘Mandy’s pregnant and we’re engaged. The second your mother stops being unreasonable about terms and we can get a divorce I’ll be getting married. I’d like you to be my best man.’ His father beamed, as if he were conferring a huge honour on Max. ‘Divorce?’ Max shook his head as if he could magically un-hear the words, pushing the whole ‘big brother’ situation far away into a place where he didn’t have to think about it or deal with it. ‘Come on, Dad. How many times have you fallen in love, only to realise it’s Mum you need?’ Max could think of at least eight occasions without trying—but his dad had never mentioned attorneys before. ‘Max, she’s demanding fifty per cent of my share of the company. And she wants it in cash if possible. DL can’t afford that kind of settlement and I sure as hell can’t. You have to talk her down. She’ll listen to you.’ She wanted what? This was exactly what DL Media didn’t need. An expensive and very public divorce. Max had two choices: help his dad, or involve the board and wrestle control of that crucial third of the company from his dad. Either option meant public scrutiny, gossip, tearing the family apart. Everything his grandfather had trusted Max to prevent. A pulse was throbbing in his temple, the blood thrumming in his veins. Talk to his mother, to the board, to his dad, go over the books yet again and try and work out how to put the company back on an even keel. There were no easy answers. Hell, right now he’d settle for difficult answers. Steven Loveday was still looking at him, appeal in his eyes, but Max couldn’t, wouldn’t meet his gaze. Instead he found himself fixated on the large watercolour on the opposite wall: the only one of his grandfather’s possessions to survive the recent office refurbishment. Blue skies smiled down on white-crested seas as green cliffs soared high above the curve of the harbour. Trengarth. The village his great-grandfather had left behind all those years ago. Max could almost smell the salt in the air, hear the waves crashing on the shore. ‘I’m away for the next two weeks. The London office is shouting out for some guidance, and I need to sort out Great-Aunt Demelza’s inheritance. You’re on your own with this one, Dad. And for goodness’ sake, don’t throw everything away for an infatuation.’ He swivelled on his heel and walked towards the door, not flinching as his father called desperately after him. ‘It’s different this time, Max. I love her. I really do.’ How many times had he heard that one? His father’s need to live up to their surname had caused more than enough problems in the Loveday family. Love? No, thank you. Max had stopped believing in that long before his voice had broken, along with Father Christmas and life being fair. It was time his father grew up and accepted that family, position and the business came first. It was a lesson Max had learned years ago. * * * ‘Ellie, dear, I’ve been thinking about the literary festival.’ Ellie Scott turned around from the shelf she was rearranging, managing—just—not to roll her eyes. It wasn’t that she wanted to stifle independent thought in Trengarth. She didn’t even want to stifle it in her shop—after all, part of the joy of running a bookshop was seeing people’s worlds opening out, watching their horizons expanding. But every time her assistant—her hard-working, good-hearted and extremely able assistant, she reminded herself for the three billionth time—uttered those words she wanted to jump in a boat and sail as far out to sea as possible. Or possibly send Mrs Trelawney out in it, all the way across the ocean. ‘That’s great, Mrs Trelawney. Make sure you hold on to those thoughts. I’ll need to start planning it very soon.’ Her assistant put down her duster and sniffed. ‘So you say, Ellie...so you say. Oh, I’ve been defending you. “Yes, she’s an incomer,” I’ve said. “Yes, it’s odd that old Miss Loveday left her money to Ellie and not to somebody born and bred here. But,” I said, “she has the interests of Trengarth at heart.”’ Ellie couldn’t hold in her sigh any longer. ‘Mrs Trelawney, you know as well as I do that I can’t do anything. There are two trustees and we have to act together. My hands are tied until Miss Loveday’s nephew deigns to honour us with his presence. And, yes,’ she added as Mrs Trelawney’s mouth opened. ‘I have emailed, written and begged the solicitors to contact him. I am as keen to get started as you are.’ ‘Keen to give up a small fortune?’ The older woman lifted her eyes up to the heavens, eloquently expressing just how implausible she thought that was. Was there any point in explaining yet again that Miss Loveday hadn’t actually left her fortune to Ellie personally, and that Ellie wasn’t sitting on a big pile of cash, cackling from her high tower at the poverty stricken villagers below? The bequest’s wording was very clear: the money had been left in trust to Ellie and the absent second trustee for the purposes of establishing an annual literary festival in the Cornish village. Of course not every inhabitant of the small fishing village felt that a festival was the best thing to benefit the community, and most of them seemed to hold Ellie solely responsible for Demelza Loveday’s edict. In vain had Ellie argued that she was powerless to spend the money elsewhere, sympathetic as she was to the competing claims of needing a new playground and refurbishing the village hall—but her hands were tied. ‘Look, Mrs Trelawney. I know how keen you are to get started, and how many excellent ideas you have. I promise you that if Miss Loveday’s nephew does not contact me in the next month then I will go to America myself and force him to co-operate.’ ‘Hmm.’ The sound spoke volumes, as did the accompanying and very thorough dusting of already spotless shelves. Ellie didn’t blame Mrs Trelawney for being unconvinced. Truthfully, she had no idea how to get the elusive Max Loveday to co-operate. Tempting as it was to imagine herself striding into his New York penthouse and marching him over to an aeroplane, she knew full well that sending yet another strongly worded email was about as forceful as she was likely to get. Not to mention that she didn’t actually know where he lived. But if she was going to daydream she might as well make it as glamorous as possible. Ellie stepped back and stared critically at the display shelf, temptingly filled with the perfect books to read on the wide, sandy Trengarth beach—or to curl up with if the weather was uncooperative. Just one week until the schools broke up and the season started in full. It was such a short season. Trengarth certainly needed something to keep the village on the tourism radar throughout the rest of the year. Maybe this festival was part of the answer. If they could just get started. Ellie stole a glance over at her assistant. Her heart was in the right place. Mrs Trelawney had lived in the village all her life. It must be heartbreaking for her to see it so empty in the winter months, with so many houses now second homes and closed from October through to Easter. ‘If I can’t get an answer in the next two weeks then I will look into getting him replaced. There must be something the solicitors can do if he simply won’t take on his responsibilities. But the last thing I want to do is spend some of the bequest on legal fees. It’s only been a few months. I think we just need to be a little patient a little longer.’ Besides, the elusive Max Loveday worked for DL Media, one of the big six publishing giants. Ellie had no idea if he was an editor, an accountant or the mail boy, but whatever he did he was bound to have some contacts. More than the sole proprietor of a small independent bookshop at the end of the earth. The bell over the door jangled and Ellie turned around, grateful for the opportunity to break off the awkward conversation. Not that the newcomer looked as if he was going to make her day any easier, judging by the firm line of his mouth and the expression of distaste as he looked around the book-lined room from his vantage position by the door. It was a shame, because under the scowl he was really rather nice to look at. Ellie’s usual clientele were families and the older villagers. It wasn’t often that handsome, youngish men came her way, and he was both. Definitely under thirty, she decided, and tall, with close-cut dark hair, a roughly stubbled chin and eyes so lightly brown they were almost caramel. But the expression in the eyes was hard and it was focussed right onto Mrs Trelawney. What on earth had her assistant been up to now? Ellie knew there was some kind of leadership battle on the Village in Bloom committee, but she wouldn’t have expected the man at the door to be involved. Although several young and trendy gardeners had recently set up in the vicinity. Maybe he was very passionate about native species and tasteful colour combinations? ‘Miss Scott?’ Unease curdled Ellie’s stomach at the curt tone, and she had to force herself not to take a step back. This is your shop, she told herself, folding her hands into tight fists. Nobody can tell you what to do. Not any more. ‘I’m Ellie Scott.’ She had to release her assistant from that gimlet glare. Not that Mrs Trelawney looked in need of help. Her own gaze was just as hard and cold. ‘Can I help?’ ‘You?’ The faint tone of incredulity didn’t endear him any further to Ellie, and nor did the quick glance that raked her up and down in one fast, judgemental dismissal. ‘You can’t be. You’re just a girl.’ ‘Thank you, but at twenty-five I’m quite grown up.’ His voice was unmistakably American which meant, surely, that here at last was the other trustee. Tired and jetlagged, probably, which explained the attitude. Coffee and a slice of cake would soon set him to rights. Ellie held out her hand. ‘Please, call me Ellie. You must be Max. It’s lovely to meet you.’ ‘You’re the woman my great-aunt left half her fortune to?’ His face had whitened, all except his eyes, which were a dark, scorching gold. ‘Tell me, Miss Scott...’ He made no move to take her hand, just stood looking at her as if she had turned into a toad, ice frosting every syllable. ‘Which do you think is worse? Seducing an older married man for his money or befriending an elderly lady for hers?’ He folded his arms and stared at her. ‘Any thoughts?’ CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_ba58a7b4-5f33-5971-8ab5-ed912763b357) MAX HADN’T INTENDED to go in all guns blazing. In fact he had entered the bookshop with just two intentions: to pick up the keys to the house his great-aunt had left him and to make it very clear to the domineering Miss Scott that the next step in sorting out his great-aunt’s quixotic will would be at his instigation and in his time frame. Only he had been wrong-footed at the start. Where was the hearty spinster of his imagination? He certainly hadn’t been expecting this thin, neatly dressed pale girl. She was almost mousy, although there was a delicate beauty in her huge brown eyes, in the neatly brushed sweep of her light brown hair that looked dull at first glance but, he noticed as the sunlight fell on it, was actually a mass of toffee and dark gold. She didn’t look like a con artist. She looked like the little match girl. Maybe that was the point. Maybe inspiring pity was her weapon. He had thought, assumed, that his co-trustee was an old friend of Great-Aunt Demelza. Not a girl younger than Max himself. Her youth was all too painfully reminiscent of his father’s recent insanity, even if Ellie Scott seemed to be missing some of Mandy’s more obvious attributes. The silence stretched long, thin, almost unbearable before Ellie broke it. ‘I beg your pardon?’ There was a shakiness in her voice but she stayed her ground, the large eyes fixed on him with painful intensity. Max was shocked by a rush of guilt. It was like shooting Bambi. ‘I think you heard.’ He was uneasily aware that they had an audience. The angular, tweed-clad old lady he had assumed was Ellie Scott was standing guard by the counter, a duster held threateningly in one hand, her sharp eyes darting expectantly from one to the other like a tennis umpire. He should give her some popcorn and a large soda to help her fully enjoy the show. ‘I was giving you a chance to backtrack or apologise.’ Ellie Scott’s voice had grown stronger, and for the first time he had a chance to notice her pointed chin and firm, straight eyebrows, both suggesting a subtle strength of character. ‘But if you have no intention of doing either than I suggest you leave and come back when you find your manners.’ It was his turn to think he’d misheard. ‘What?’ ‘You heard me. Leave. And unless you’re willing to be polite don’t come back.’ Max glared at her, but although there was a slight tremor in her lightly clenched hands Ellie Scott didn’t move. Fine. He walked back over to the door and wrenched it open. ‘This isn’t over, honey,’ he warned her. ‘I will find out exactly how you manoeuvred your way into my great-aunt’s good graces and I will get back every penny you conned out of her.’ The jaunty bell jangled as he closed the door behind him. Firmly. The calendar said it was July, but the Cornish weather had obviously decided to play unseasonal and Max, who had left a humid heatwave behind in Connecticut, was hit by a cold gust of wind, shooting straight through the thin cotton of his T-shirt, goose-pimpling his arms and shocking him straight to his bones. And sweeping the anger clear out of his head. What on earth had he been thinking? Or, as it turned out, not thinking. Damn. Somehow he had completely misfired. Max took a deep breath, the salty tang of sea air filling his lungs. He shouldn’t have gone straight into the shop after the long flight and even longer drive from Gatwick airport to this sleepy Cornish corner. Not with the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. Not with the scene with his father still playing through his head. Who knew what folly his father would commit without Max keeping an eye on him? Where his mother’s anger and sense of betrayal would drag them down to? But that was their problem. DL Media was his sole concern now. Max began to wander down the steep, narrow sidewalk. It felt as if he had reached the ends of the earth during the last three hours of his drive through the most western and southern parts of England. A drive that had brought him right here, to the place his great-grandfather had left behind, shaking off his family ties, the blood and memories of the Great War and England, when he had crossed the channel to start a whole new life. And now Max had ended up back here. Funny how circular life could be... Pivoting slowly, Max took a moment to see just where ‘here’ was. The briny smell might take him back to holidays spent on the Cape, but Trengarth was as different from the flat dunes of Cape Cod as American football was from soccer. The small bookshop was one of several higgledy-piggledy terraces on a steep narrow road winding up the cliff. At the top of the cliff, imperiously looking down onto the bay and dominating the smaller houses dotted around it, was a white circular house: his Great-Aunt Demelza’s house. The house she had left to him. A house where hopefully there would be coffee, some food. A bed. A solution. If he carried on heading down he would reach the seafront and the narrow road running alongside the ocean. Turn left and the old harbour curved out to sea, still filled with fishing boats. All the cruisers and yachts were moored further out. Above the harbour the old fishermen’s cottages were built up the cliff: a riotous mixture of colours and styles. Turn right and several more shops faced on to the road before it stopped abruptly at the causeway leading to the wide beach where, despite or because of the weather, surfers were bobbing up and down in the waves, looking like small, sleek seals. Give him an hour and he could join them. He could take a board out...hire a boat. Forget his cares in the cold tang of the ocean. Max smiled wryly. If only he could. Pretend he was just another American tourist retracing his roots, shrugging off the responsibilities he carried. But, like Atlas, he was never going to be relieved of his heavy burden. It was a pretty place. And weirdly familiar—although maybe not that weird. After all, his grandfather had had several watercolours of almost exactly this view hanging in his study. Yes, there were definitely worse places to work out a way forward. Only to do that he needed to get into that large white house. And according to the solicitor he had emailed from the plane, Ellie Scott was holding the keys to that very house. Which meant he was going to have to eat some humble pie. Max was normally quite a fan of pie, but that was not a flavour he enjoyed. ‘Suck it up, Max,’ he muttered to a low-flying seagull, which was eyeing him hopefully. ‘Suck it up.’ He was going to have to go back to the bookshop and start the whole acquaintance again. * * * Ellie was doing her best to damp down the dismaying swirl in her stomach and get on with her day. She hadn’t caved, had she? Hadn’t trembled or wept or tried to pacify him? She had stayed calm and collected and in control. On the outside, at least. Only she knew that right now she wanted nothing more than to sink into the old rocking chair in the corner of the childcare section and indulge in a pathetic bout of tears. The sneering tone, the cold, scornful expression had triggered far more feelings than she cared to admit. She had spent three years trying to pacify that exact tone, that exact look—and the next three years trying to forget. In just five minutes Max Loveday had brought it all vividly back. Darn him—and darn her shaky knees and trembling hands, giving away her inner turmoil. She’d thought she was further on than this. Stronger than this. Ellie had never thought she would be quite so glad for Mrs Trelawney’s presence, but right now the woman was her safety net. While she sat there, busily typing away on her phone, no doubt ensuring that every single person in Trengarth was fully updated on the morning’s events, Ellie had no option but to hold things together. Instead she switched on the coffee machine and unpacked the cakes she had picked up earlier from the Boat House caf? on the harbour. Ellie had always dreamed of a huge bookshop, packed with hidden corners, secret nooks, and supplemented by a welcoming caf? full of tasty treats. What she had was a shop which, like all the shops in Trengarth, was daintily proportioned. Fitting in all the books she wanted to stock in the snug space was enough of a challenge. A caf? would be a definite step too far. She had compromised with a long counter by the till heaped with a tempting array of locally made scones and cakes and a state-of-the-art coffee machine. Buying in the cakes meant she didn’t have to sacrifice precious stock space for a kitchen. It took just a few moments to arrange the flapjacks, Cornish fairing biscuits, brightly coloured cupcakes and scones onto vintage cake stands and cover them with the glass domes she used to keep them fresh. ‘We have walnut, orange and cheese scones.’ She deliberately spoke aloud as she began to chalk up the varieties onto the blackboard she kept propped on the table, hoping Mrs Trelawney would take the hint, stop texting and start working. ‘The cupcakes are vanilla and the big cake is...let me see...yep, carrot and orange.’ ‘It’s a bit early for cake...’ The drawling accent made her stop and stiffen. ‘But I’ll take a walnut scone and a coffee. Please.’ The last word was so evidently an afterthought. Ellie smiled sweetly as she swivelled round. No way was she going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how uncomfortable he’d made her. ‘It’s self-service and pay at the till. You, however, are barred. You’ll have to get your coffee somewhere else.’ ‘Look...’ Max Loveday looked meaningfully over at Mrs Trelawney. ‘Can we talk? In private?’ Ellie’s heart began to pick up speed, her pulse hammering. No way was she going anywhere alone with this man. He might be smiling now, but she wasn’t fooled. ‘I don’t think so. You had no problem insulting me in front of my assistant. I’m sure she can’t wait to hear round two.’ He closed his eyes briefly. ‘Fair point.’ ‘Oh, good.’ She hadn’t expected him to capitulate so easily. It was an unexpected and unwanted point in his favour. ‘Go on, then. Say whatever it is you have to say.’ ‘I was out of line.’ Ellie folded her arms and raised her eyebrows. If Max Loveday thought he was getting away with anything short of a full-on grovel he could think again. ‘Yes...?’ she prompted. ‘And I’m sorry. It’s no excuse, but my family is going through some stuff right now and I’m a little het-up about it.’ ‘Tell me, Mr Loveday...’ Ellie deliberately parroted his words back to him. ‘Which is worse? Seducing a family man for his money or conning an old lady out of her cash? And which are you accusing me of?’ As if she didn’t know. Well, if she’d conned the old lady he’d been right there with her; he was joint trustee after all. ‘I think they’re both pretty vile.’ There was a bleakness in his voice, and when his eyes rested on Ellie the hardness in them unnerved her. He hadn’t come back because he was stricken with remorse. He still thought her guilty. ‘So do I.’ The look of surprise on his face gave her courage. ‘I also think making slanderous accusations against strangers and proffering fake apologies in order to get the keys to a house and a cup of coffee is pretty out of order. What do you say to that, Mr Loveday?’ ‘I’m prepared to pay for the coffee.’ It wasn’t much of a retort but it was the best he could do when he was firmly in the wrong—as far as manners were concerned—and so tired that the wooden floor was beginning to look more than a little inviting. Flying Sydney to Boston to Hartford and then on to England in just a few days had left him in a grey smog that even first-class sleep pods hadn’t quite been able to dispel. ‘Look, you have to admit my great-aunt’s will is pretty unusual. Leaving her entire fortune in the hands of a virtual stranger.’ The large brown eyes darkened with something that looked very much like scorn. It wasn’t an expression Max was used to seeing in anybody’s eyes and it stung more than he expected. ‘Yes, she said more than once that she wished she knew her great-nephew more. I thought this was her way of trying to include you.’ Damn her, he hadn’t meant himself—and he would bet a much needed good night’s sleep she knew that full well. ‘It was her money to leave as she liked. I didn’t expect to inherit a penny. Nor do I need to. If she wanted to leave it all to charity that’s one thing. But this...? This is craziness. Leaving it to you...to found a festival. I didn’t ask to be involved.’ He just couldn’t comprehend it. What on earth had his great-aunt been thinking? What did he know or care about a little village on the edge of the ocean? ‘She didn’t actually leave the money to me, to you or to us.’ Ellie sounded completely exasperated. Max got the feeling it wasn’t the first time she’d had this conversation. ‘I can’t touch a penny without your say-so and vice versa—and we’re both completely accountable to the executors. There is no fraud here, Mr Loveday, and no coercion. Nothing at all except a slightly odd request made by a whimsical elderly lady. Didn’t you read the will?’ ‘I read enough to know that she left you this shop.’ No coercion, indeed. Ellie Scott wasn’t just a trustee she was a beneficiary: inheriting the shop and the flat above it. The flat she already currently resided in, according to the will. It was all very neat. ‘Yes...’ The brightness dimmed from her eyes, and it was as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. ‘She was always good to me. She was my godmother. Did you know that? My grandmother’s best friend, and my own good, dear friend. I will always be grateful to her. For everything.’ ‘Your godmother?’ Damn, he had come into the whole situation blind and it was completely unlike him. It was sloppy, led to mistakes. ‘Yes. But even more importantly she was your great-aunt. Which is why she wanted you involved in her legacy, why she left you the house. It was the house her father was born in, apparently. And his father was some kind of big deal sea captain. He would have been...what? Your great-great-grandfather?’ ‘Yes, although I don’t know anything about him or about anything to do with the English side of the family. A sea captain?’ A reluctant smile curved his lips. He had been in Cornwall all of an hour and had already discovered some unknown family history. ‘My grandfather took me sailing all the time. He had a house on the Cape. Said he always slept best when he could hear the sea. Must be in our blood.’ ‘You can hear the sea from every room in The Round House too. Maybe my godmother knew what she was doing when she left the house to you.’ ‘Maybe.’ It was a nice idea. But, really? A house? In Cornwall? A seven-hour flight and a tedious long drive from his home. It would have been far simpler if Great-Aunt Demelza had instructed her solicitors to liquefy the whole estate and endowed a wing at her favourite museum or hospital. That was how philanthropy worked. Not this messy, getting involved business. Although it was kind of cool to find out about his distant Cornish heritage. A sea captain... Maybe there was a photo back at the house. A voice broke in from the corner and Max jumped. He’d forgotten about their audience. ‘This is all very entertaining. But what I want to know, Ellie, is are you planning to actually start this festival or not?’ Ellie looked at him, her face composed. ‘I don’t think that’s up to me any more, Mrs Trelawney. Well, Mr Loveday? Are you willing to work with me? Or do we need to call the solicitors in and find a way around the trust?’ ‘I can’t just drop everything, Miss Scott. I have a very busy job. A job in Connecticut. Across the ocean. I can’t walk away to spend weeks playing benefactor by the sea.’ But even as he spoke the words a chill shivered through him. What did the next few months hold? Could he find a way to make his father toe the line—or was he going to have to force a vote at the board? He would win. He knew many of the board members shared his misgivings. But then what? His already fragile relationship with his father would be irrevocably shattered. It was a price he was willing to pay. And if his great-aunt’s house did hold the key to an easy win then the least he could do was help get her dream started while he was here. His mouth twisted. It wasn’t as easy to walk away from family obligations as he’d thought, even when the family member was a stranger and deceased. ‘I can give you two weeks. Although I’ll be in London some of that time. Take it or leave it.’ Ellie’s cool gaze was fixed on him. As if she could see straight into the heart of him—and see all that was missing. ‘Fine.’ ‘So I can set up a meeting?’ asked Mrs Trelawney. ‘I have a lot of ideas and I know many other people do too.’ Ellie’s assistant had given up any pretence of working, her eyes bright as she leaned onto the counter. ‘We could have a theme. Or base it on a genre? A murder mystery with actors? Or should we have it food-related. There could be baking competitions—make your favourite literary cake.’ Your favourite what? Max tried to avoid catching Ellie’s eye but it was impossible to look away. The serious, slightly sad expression had disappeared, to be replaced by a mischievous smile lurking in the deep brown depths of her large eyes. He could feel an answering gleam in his own eyes, and his mouth wanted to smile in response, to try and coax a grin out of her, but he kept his face as calm and sincere as he could, trying to keep all his focus on Mrs Trelawney. But he couldn’t stop his gaze sliding across to watch Ellie’s reaction. She was leaning against a bookcase, her arms folded as her face sparkled in amusement. ‘They are excellent ideas,’ he managed, and was rewarded by the quick upturn of her full mouth and the intriguing hint of a dimple in one pale cheek. ‘But we are at a very early stage. I think we need to talk to the solicitors and look at funds before we...ah...appoint a committee. I do hope you can manage to hold on to those ideas for just a little longer?’ ‘Well, yes.’ Mrs Trelawney’s cheeks were pink. ‘Of course. I can make a list. I have a lot of ideas.’ ‘I for one can believe it.’ Ellie pushed away from the shelves in one graceful movement. ‘I’m expecting a delivery in an hour, Mrs Trelawney, so now would be a good time for you to take your break if that’s convenient?’ ‘My break?’ Mrs Trelawney’s eyes moved from Max to Ellie and back again before she reluctantly nodded. Ellie didn’t speak again until her assistant had collected her bag and left the shop. ‘Poor Mrs T. She’s torn between being the first to spread the gossip and fear of missing out on any more. Still, the arrival of Demelza Loveday’s mysterious American great-nephew should give her enough to be getting on with. And...’ there was a tart note in her voice ‘...you certainly managed to stir things up when you walked into my shop.’ This was his chance to apologise. Max still wasn’t entirely sure what to make of Ellie Scott, but what had his grandfather always said? It was much easier to judge from the inside rather than out in the cold. ‘I had my reasons. But they didn’t really have anything to do with you. I’m sorry.’ Ellie pushed back a piece of hair that had fallen out of the clip confining the long tresses. ‘I can’t say that’s okay, because it isn’t. But I’m willing to give you a second chance. It’s going to be hard enough for two incomers to win the support of a place like Trengarth as it is, without being at war ourselves.’ ‘You’re an incomer?’ Max wasn’t exactly an expert on British accents and Ellie sounded just as he’d expected her to: like the heroine of one of those awful films where girls wore bonnets and the men tights, all speaking with clipped vowels and clear enunciation. ‘I spent most of my childhood summers here, and I’ve lived here for the last three years, but I’ll still be an incomer in thirty.’ She hesitated. ‘Look, I’ll be honest. I would be more than happy to see you off the premises and never have to deal with you again, but we have to work together for the next two weeks. You must be tired and jetlagged. Why don’t you go and rest now and come back tomorrow? We’ll start again.’ Her words were conciliatory, her voice confident, but there was a wariness in her posture. She was slightly turned away, the slim shoulders a little hunched, and her arms were protectively wrapped around her. She was afraid of something. Afraid of him? Of what he might discover? Maybe she wasn’t as innocent as she appeared. He’d been putting this off long enough, distracted by his father’s extra-marital shenanigans and the all-consuming pressures of living up to the family legacy. It was time to talk to the solicitors, read the damn will properly and find out just what Ellie Scott was hiding. ‘That is a very generous offer. Thank you.’ Ellie exhaled on a visible sigh of relief. ‘Then I’ll see you back here tomorrow. I’ll telephone the solicitors and see if they can fit us in. Do you know how to get to the house?’ She walked around the counter, crouching down and disappearing from view before handing him a set of keys. They were old-fashioned iron keys. Heavy and unwieldy. ‘I’ll find my way, thanks. See you later, honey.’ It was both a promise and a threat—and he was pretty sure she knew it. CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_57977afa-6b9d-550f-abd6-ef05c8d7e52f) THE SHOP HAD been busy. So busy Ellie hadn’t had a moment to dwell on the morning’s encounter. And even though she knew a fair few of her customers had come in to try and prise information about Max Loveday out of her—or out of the far more forthcoming Mrs Trelawney—they had all bought something, even if it was just a coffee. Slowly Ellie began to tidy up, knowing that she was deliberately putting off the moment when she would head upstairs. She loved her flat, and normally she loved the silence, the space, the solitude. Knowing it was hers to do with as she pleased. But this evening she dreaded the time alone. She knew she would relive every cutting remark, every look, every moment of her bruising encounter with Max Loveday. And that inevitably her thoughts would turn to her ex-fianc?. It wasn’t a place she wanted to go. And tomorrow she would have to deal with Max all over again. As always, the ritual of shutting up shop soothed her. From the day she had opened it the shop had been a sanctuary. Her sanctuary. She had planned and designed every feature, every reading nook and display, had painted the walls, hung the pictures, shelved each and every book. Had even chosen the temperamental diva of a coffee machine, which needed twenty minutes of cleaning and wiping before she could put it to bed, and sanded the wood she used for a counter. She had been able to indulge her love of colour, of posters, of clutter. Nobody expected a bookshop to be tastefully minimalist. By seven o’clock Ellie could put it off no longer. Every book was in its rightful place. Even the preschool picture books were neatly lined up in alphabetical order. A futile task—it needed just one three-year-old to return the entire rack to chaos. The shelves were gleaming and dust-free, the cushions on sofas, chairs and benches were shaken out and plumped up, the floor was swept and the leftover cakes had been boxed away. She’d even counted the cash and reconciled the till. There was literally nothing left to do. Except leave. Ellie switched the lights off and stood for a moment, admiring the neatness of the room in the evening light. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. If Demelza Loveday hadn’t encouraged her to follow her dreams, hadn’t rented her the shop, where would Ellie be now? And, like the fairy godmother she’d been, Miss Loveday had ensured that Ellie could always stay here, always be safe. The shop and the flat were hers. Nobody could ever take them away from her. And, no matter what Max Loveday thought, it hadn’t been Ellie’s idea. The legacy was a wonderful, thoughtful gift—and it had been a complete surprise. The one bright moment in the grey weeks following Miss Loveday’s death and the unwelcome burden of the trust. A rap at the closed door made her jump. The shop was evidently closed. The sign said so, the shutter was drawn, the lights dimmed right down in the two bay windows. But it wouldn’t be the first time someone had needed an emergency gift. That was the thing about small towns: you were never really fully closed. ‘Coming,’ she called as she stepped over to the door, untwisting the lock and shooting back the two bolts before cautiously opening it...just a few centimetres. Not that there had ever been any robbery beyond the odd bit of shoplifting in Trengarth’s small high street. Ellie’s hands tightened on the doorframe as she took in the lean, tall figure, the close-cut dark hair and stubbled chin. She swallowed. Hard. ‘I didn’t think we were meeting until tomorrow.’ She didn’t open the door wider or invite him to come in. ‘I wanted to apologise again.’ Max held up a bottle of red wine. ‘I found this in Great-Aunt Demelza’s wine cellar. She had quite a collection.’ ‘It’s your collection now.’ Ellie didn’t reach out and take the bottle, her hands still firmly clasping the door, keeping it just ajar. Max pulled a face. ‘I can’t quite get my head around that. It seemed pretty intrusive, just walking in and showering in the guest en-suite bathroom, looking around at all her stuff. I mean, I didn’t actually know her.’ Showering? Ellie immediately tried to push that particular image out of her mind but it lingered there. A fall of water, right onto a tanned, lean torso... Her fingers tightened as her stomach swooped. Her libido had been dead for years. Did it have to choose right this moment to resuscitate itself? ‘I was planning on chocolates as well, but the shop is shut.’ He gestured behind him to the small all-purpose supermarket. ‘They were shut this morning as well. Do they ever open?’ Ellie looked over at the firmly drawn shutters, grateful for a chance to think about anything but long, steamy showers. ‘They do open for longer in the school holidays, but otherwise the hours are a little limiting. It’s okay if you know them, but it can be frustrating for tourists—and then Mr Whitehead complains that people drive to the next town and use the bigger supermarkets.’ There. That was a perfectly safe, inane and even dull comment. Libido back in check. She was most definitely not looking at the golden tan on his arms, nor noticing the muscle definition under his T-shirt. No, not at all. ‘You really didn’t have to,’ she hurried on, forcing her eyes back up and focussing firmly on his ear. No one could have inappropriate thoughts about an ear, could they? ‘Really.’ ‘I think I did.’ His smile was rueful. ‘I managed a few hours’ sleep on the couch and when I woke up I felt just terrible. Not just because of the jetlag. My grandfather would have been horrified if he had heard me speak to a lady that way. He brought me up better than that.’ Grandfather? Not parents? Interesting... ‘Anyway, I thought I’d make amends and get some air...have a look at this town my great-grandfather crossed an ocean to escape. I don’t suppose you’d like to join me? Show me around?’ No, she most definitely would not. In fact she had a very important date with the new edition of Anne of Green Gables she had unpacked that very morning: hardback, illustrated and annotated. She also had a quarter-bottle of wine, a piece of salmon and some salad. Another crazy evening in the Scott household of one. Would anything change if she threw caution to the wind and went out for a walk before dinner, book, bath and bed? In fact she often took an evening walk. The only real difference would be her companion. He was her beloved godmother’s nephew. Surely Demelza would have wanted her to make him welcome, no matter how bad his first impression? Hadn’t she just been remembering just how much she owed her benefactress? She really should replay the debt. Besides, he was trying to make amends. She wasn’t used to that. A flutter started low down in her stomach. For so many years she had been told she was in the wrong, no matter what the reality. A man admitting his mistake was a novel experience. Ellie swung the door open and stood back. ‘Come in,’ she invited him. ‘I just need to change my shoes and grab my bag.’ It would have been nice to have some more notice. She was still in the grey velvet skinny jeans she had pulled on that morning, teamed with a purple flowered tunic. Her hair was neatly tucked back in a clip and she wasn’t wearing any make-up. Not that she usually did for work, but she suddenly wished she had some armour...even if it was just a coat of mascara. Ellie waited as Max stepped through the door, moving from one foot to the other in indecision. She needed to go upstairs, but she seldom invited other people into her flat. Would it be odd to leave him kicking his heels in the shop while she grabbed a cardigan and quickly brushed out her hair? At least there was plenty for him to read. ‘You might as well come up.’ Not the most gracious invitation, but he didn’t need asking twice, following her through the dark bookshop to the discreet wooden door at the back of the shop which marked the line between home and work. Ellie was used to the narrow, low staircase, but she could sense Max taking it more slowly, his head brushing the ceiling as the staircase turned. He breathed an audible sigh of relief when he arrived at the top of the staircase with the top of his head still intact. The narrow staircase curved and continued up to the third storey, where her bedroom, study and bathroom were situated, but she stepped out into the flat’s main hallway. It was simply decorated in a light olive-green, with the colour picked up in the striped runner covering polished floorboards. At the far end a window overlooked the street. Next to it a row of pegs was covered with an assortment of her jackets, coats and scarves; boots and shoes were lined up beneath them. On her right the kitchen door was slightly ajar. Her unwashed breakfast dishes were still piled on the side. Ellie fought the urge to shut the door, to hide them. In the years she had lived with her ex, Simon, she had learned quickly to tidy up all detritus straight away. Leaving dirty dishes out for a few hours was a small act of rebellion, but it made the flat hers, the kitchen hers. A sign that she was free of his control. ‘Just go straight ahead.’ She tried to keep her voice light, to hide what a big deal this was. The living room ran the full length of the building, with a window at either end flooding the long room with evening light. A red velvet three-seater couch and matching loveseat were arranged at right angles at one end of the room; a small dining table with four chairs stood at the other. The walls were plain white, but she had injected colour with dozens of framed posters: her favourites from her last three years of bookselling. Max stepped inside and looked around. ‘No books?’ He sounded surprised. Ellie laughed, a little nervously. ‘Oh, plenty of books. I keep them on the landing and in the study. I thought being surrounded by books all day and all night would probably turn me into a real hermit instead of practically being one.’ ‘Here.’ He proffered the wine to her. ‘Please, take it.’ Ellie looked at it. She needed to make her position clear before she accepted the wine...before she showed him round the village. Before she was distracted again by the evening sun on a bare arm or visions of showers. She had promised herself that she would always speak out, always be honest, never allow herself to be pushed back into being the quiet, submissive ghost she had been with Simon. Only it wasn’t quite so easy in practice. She took a deep breath, her fingers linking, twisting as she did so. ‘I’ll be honest, Mr Loveday...’ His eyebrows flew up at her words but he didn’t interrupt, just leaned back against the wall, arms folded as she spoke. ‘You were very rude to me earlier. You don’t know me, and you had no evidence for your words. If it was up to me you would be on your way back to New York right now but for one thing. Your great-aunt. It was her wish that we work together and I intend to honour that. But if you speak to me again the way you did earlier then I will be talking to the solicitors about resigning from the trust.’ She wanted to collapse as she said the words, but forced herself to remain standing and still. Although she couldn’t stop her eyes searching his face for telltale signs. For narrowed eyes, a tightened mouth, flaring nostrils. Signs she knew all too well. She clasped her hands, trying to still their slight tremor. But Max Loveday’s face didn’t change—except for the dawning hint of respect in his eyes. ‘Fair point—or should I say fair points? First of all, please, if we’re going to work together, do call me Max. Secondly, I don’t live in New York. I live in Connecticut, so if you do send me away please make sure I end up in the correct state. And third...’ He paused. ‘You’re right. I was rude. There are reasons, and they have nothing to do with you. I can only apologise again.’ He closed his eyes briefly. ‘There are things going on at home that make it hard for me to believe in altruism, and my great-aunt did leave you this building.’ ‘I didn’t ask her to.’ ‘No, but look at it from my point of view. I don’t know you. I just see the cold, hard facts. She was on her own...possibly vulnerable. She left her fortune in your—in our hands—and bequeathed to you a home and livelihood. On paper, that’s a little suspicious.’ Ellie hated to admit it, but he had a point—and she had been shocked by the will and her own prominent part in it. There was one thing he hadn’t taken into consideration, though. She laughed. ‘You didn’t know your great-aunt very well, did you? I can’t see her being taken in by anybody. She didn’t suffer fools gladly.’ ‘I didn’t know her at all. She moved over here before I was born. I wish I’d made an effort to see her before it was too late.’ ‘You should have done. She was worth knowing. Right, I’m just going to...’ She gestured upstairs. ‘I won’t be long. Make yourself at home.’ She slipped out of the room. She didn’t care about impressing Max Loveday, but there was no way she was heading out without brushing her hair and powdering her face. Maybe a quick coat of mascara. To freshen up after a long day at work. That was all. Trouble was, she wasn’t even fooling herself. * * * So this was Ellie Scott’s home. Bright, vibrant, and yet somehow bare. For all the posters on the walls, the cushions heaped on the inviting sofas, the view of the sea from the back window, there was something missing. Photos. There were no photos. Not on the walls, not on the sideboard, nor on the mantelpiece over the cosy-looking wood-burning stove. He had never yet met a woman who didn’t decorate her personal space with family portraits, pictures of friends, holidays, favourite pets, university formals. Max himself had a framed picture of his parents on his desk in his office, and a few childhood photos in his apartment. The picture of himself aged about ten on his grandfather’s boat, proudly holding up a large fish, was one of his most prized possessions. Maybe they were tucked away like her books, but somehow he doubted it. Where had she come from? What had made a young woman in her early twenties move to a tiny village miles from civilisation and stay there? Or had she walked out of the sea? A selkie doomed to spend her life in human form until she found her sealskin once more? With those huge brown eyes and long, long lashes Ellie certainly fitted the bill. ‘Okay, ready when you are. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long?’ When Ellie had said she would be a minute Max had been prepared for a twenty-minute wait. Minimum. Yet barely five minutes had passed since she had left. She had pulled a long light grey cardigan over her tunic, swapped her pumps for sneakers and brushed out her hair. That was it. Yet she looked completely fresh, like a dryad in spring. Anything less like the manicured, blow-dried, designer-clad women he worked with, dated and slept with was hard to imagine. But right now she was fresh iced water to their over-sugared and over-carbonated soda. Not that he was looking in any real way. It was the contrast, that was all. It wasn’t that he was actually interested in wholesome girls with creamy skin. He just didn’t know many. Or any. ‘Yes. Ready.’ He might be staring. He wasn’t staring like some gauche teenage boy, was he? Reluctantly he pulled his gaze away. ‘Come on, honey, let’s go.’ * * * The sharp breeze that had greeted him earlier in the day had died away, and despite the hour the sun still cast a warm glow over the village. The gentle warmth was a welcome contrast to the heat and humidity of home and the wet and cold of the Sydney winter—not that Sydney’s worst could compare to the bone-chilling cold of a Connecticut winter, but it could still be unpleasant. ‘There are more houses up there, the school and the children’s playground.’ Ellie pointed up the hill away from the coast. ‘Useful things like the doctor’s surgery and the bus stop that takes you to the nearest towns. But I don’t suppose you’re interested in those?’ ‘Not unless I was planning to move here.’ ‘What will you do with the house?’ She turned and began to walk the other way, down the hill and towards the swell of the sea. He fell into step beside her. ‘I don’t know.’ The moment he had stepped into the wide hallway of The Round House, looked at the seascapes and compasses on the walls and heard the rumble of the sea through the windows he had felt a connection. But even the idea of keeping it was impractical. ‘It’s way too far away to be a holiday home, but now I know there’s a real family link I’d hate to sell it on.’ ‘Trengarth has enough holiday homes. It needs young families to settle here, to put down roots. They’re talking about closing down the primary school and bussing the kids over to the next town.’ She paused and looked back up the hill. ‘Once this was a proper high street: haberdashers, ironmongers, butchers, toy shop...the lot. Your great-aunt has some amazing photos, dating right back to Victorian times. Now it’s all gift shops and art galleries, and the front is buckets and spades and surf hire.’ She sounded sad. Nostalgic for a Trengarth she couldn’t ever have actually experienced. ‘Is that why you moved here? To put down roots?’ Was there a family in her future? A man she was hoping to settle down with? There had been no hint of anyone else in her flat. No hint of any family or partner. ‘I moved here because it felt safe. Because there was someone here I loved and trusted.’ She didn’t say any more, and he didn’t push it as they carried on to the bottom of the hill. When they reached it she crossed over the road to a narrow sidewalk, taking the right-hand fork along the harbour wall. On the other side of the road, houses faced out: brightly coloured terraced cottages in whites, blues, pinks and greens making a cheerful mosaic. Winding narrow streets twisted and turned behind them, with houses built higher and higher up the cliff. ‘This is the old town. Most of these would have been fishermen’s cottages once.’ ‘Once?’ ‘Some still are,’ she admitted. ‘Some are retirement properties, and a few are owned by villagers. But probably half are holiday cottages. Which is fine when they’re full. My business depends on tourists with money to spend and time to browse, and so do the caf?s, the B&Bs, the art galleries and the bucket and spade shops. It’s when they’re empty, or they don’t get rented out and are only visited two weeks a year, when it’s a problem. That’s why it’s important that we really try and make this festival a success. It could bring so many more people here.’ She stopped and leaned on the iron railings, looking out over the curve of the old harbour. ‘I love this view. The fishing boats safely moored inside the harbour, the powerboats and sailboats further out... Sometimes I wish I could sail, just set off and see where I end up.’ Her voice was unexpectedly wistful. Max stole a glance at her profile. She was in another world, almost oblivious to his presence as she stared out at the white-flecked waves. ‘You don’t sail? You live by the sea and don’t sail? You must surf, then.’ He gave her an appraising look. She was very slim, almost to the point of thin, but there was a strength and a lithe grace in the way she moved. She would probably be a natural on a board. She shook her head. ‘Swim?’ ‘No.’ A reluctant smile curved her mouth. ‘I love the sea, but more as something to look at, listen to. I’m not so much one for venturing on to or into it.’ ‘Wow...’ He shook his head. ‘You live literally five minutes away and you just look at it? I was going to try and hire a boat while I’m here. I think I may have to offer to take you out for a sail. It’ll change your life.’ ‘Maybe.’ It wasn’t a refusal, and her smile didn’t slip away as she resumed walking. ‘Okay, if you take that road there it will lead you to the most important building in Trengarth: The Three Herrings. There is another pub further along, with a beer garden and a view of the harbour. It’s lovely, but...’ She lowered her voice. ‘It’s mostly used by tourists and incomers. The real Trengarthians frequent The Three Herrings, even though there is no view, the chimney smokes and the grub is very much of the plain and plentiful variety.’ ‘Got it.’ ‘Do you want to see the beach?’ ‘Sure.’ They turned around and walked back, past the high street and onto the wider promenade. No houses here. Just shops selling ice cream, sun cream and beach toys, a couple of board shops filled with body-boards, surfboards and wetsuits, which Max noted with keen interest, and a few caf?s. ‘The Boat House,’ Ellie explained, when he stopped in front of a modern-looking glass and wood building on the ocean side of the road. ‘Caf? by day, bistro by night, and a bit of a cool place to hang out. I used to have dinner with your Great-Aunt Demelza here on a Friday evening.’ Her voice softened. ‘I turned up as usual the Friday after she died...just automatically, you know? I didn’t really take it in that she was gone until I was seated by myself.’ ‘I’m sorry. Sorry that you miss her and that I didn’t know her. And that nobody came to the funeral—although we lost Grandfather just a few months before, and things were difficult.’ That was an understatement. His father had barely finished the eulogy before he’d had started gathering up the reins at DL and turning the company upside down. ‘It’s okay. Really. I have some experience at arranging funerals.’ There was a bitter note to her voice that surprised him. ‘Besides, she was very clear about what she wanted. I didn’t have to do much.’ She turned away from The Boat House and headed towards the slipway that would take them on to the beach. Max stood for one moment to take in the view. The slim figure all in grey was getting smaller as she walked along the wide golden sweep of beach. The cliffs were steeper on this side of the bay, green and yellow with gorse, and rocks and large pebbles were clustered at the bottom before the stony mass gave way to the softer sand. The sea roared as the tide beat its inexorable way in, the swell significant enough to justify the presence of lifeguards’ chairs and warning flags. Not that it seemed to deter the determined crowd of surfers bobbing about like small seals. The breeze had risen a little. Enough for Max to feel a slight chill on his arms as he stepped on to the sand. He inhaled, enjoying the familiar tang of salt, and heard the cry of gulls overhead and the excited shrieks of a gaggle of small children who were racing a puppy along the tideline. For the first time in a long time Max could feel the burden on his shoulders slip away, the tightness in his chest ease. ‘Hey, Ellie!’ he yelled. ‘Wait for me.’ He took off after her, enjoying the burn in his calves as he sprinted along the resistant sand, enjoying the complete freedom of the here, the now. ‘This is magnificent,’ he panted as he skidded to a halt beside her. ‘What a beach. If I lived here I’d have two dogs, a boat, and I’d surf every day.’ She flushed. ‘I do walk on the beach, even if I don’t immerse myself in the sea. And I have thought about maybe getting a guinea pig.’ ‘A guinea pig? You can’t walk a guinea pig.’ ‘Some people do. They have harnesses and everything.’ But she caught his eye as she said it and a smile broke out on her face: a full-on, wide-mouthed grin. It transformed her, lighting up the shadows of her face, bringing that elusive prettiness to the forefront. Max stood stock-still, stunned. ‘Harnesses...right. I see.’ He turned back as he said it, instinctively heading for the safety of the large white house just visible at the top of the cliffs. He wasn’t here to flirt, and Ellie wasn’t giving off any signals that she might enjoy the kind of no-strings fun he’d be interested in. It was far better not to notice how her face lit up, not to notice the sparkle in the large eyes or the intriguing dimple in her cheek. Far, far better not to notice just how perfectly shaped her mouth was: not too large, not too small, but pretty damn near just right. ‘Come on,’ he said, bouncing on his heels. ‘I’ll race you back to the road. Loser buys the winner a pint. Ready? Go!’ CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_9dbd008e-cbb1-563b-b30e-bbf77c4d482a) ‘THAT WASN’T FAIR. You had a head start.’ Ellie pulled the long, tangled mass of hair out of her face, twisting it into a loose knot. Her heart was thumping from the unaccustomed exercise. She’d thought she was fitter than that, although she couldn’t remember the last time she had run at full pelt, aware of nothing but her legs pumping, her heart beating fit to burst, the wind biting at her ears. ‘If you’re going to be a sore loser...’ Max looked annoyingly at ease, leaning on the railing and waiting for her, his cheeks unflushed, his chest not heaving for breath. Unlike hers. ‘No, no, I concede. I’m not sure I’d have won even with a head start. Next time I pick the competition. Speed-reading, maybe.’ She stepped onto the causeway to join him, but as she did so she heard her name called from someone behind her and twisted round to see who it was. It wasn’t often she found herself hailed in such a friendly way. A group of wetsuit-clad surfers had left the sea and were making their way up the beach, boards tucked under their arms. ‘Ellie, wait!’ She turned to meet them, all too aware of Max behind her. The surfers were all locals. Some were born and bred, and some were incomers like Ellie, lured to Trengarth by the sea, the scenery and the pace of life. Ellie often forgot just how many people her own age lived in the village, many working at The Boat House caf? or the hotel of the same name, others owning businesses they ran from their homes. The group in front of her included a talented chef, a website designer and an architect. ‘Hi...’ She wasn’t sure why she was so self-conscious as she called back, but the heat in her cheeks wasn’t completely down to her recent exercise. ‘Are you coming to the quiz tonight?’ asked Sam, the architect, as he jogged ahead of his friends to join her. ‘We would never have won last week without you.’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/jessica-gilmore/a-will-a-wish-a-proposal/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.