Cinderella's Christmas Secret (Mills & Boon Modern)

by Sharon Kendrick

  But those were pointless thoughts. Negative thoughts she wasn’t going to entertain. Instead Hollie watched as Maximo chopped onions with rather terrifying dexterity and realised he hadn’t been exaggerating about his prowess in the kitchen. ‘So what are you cooking?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a variation of a dish called cocido montañéas. Mountain stew. It comes from northern Spain. From Cantabria.’

  ‘And is that where you come from?’

  ‘It is.’ He sliced a wooden spoon through the thick mixture, clearly more comfortable discussing the meal than details about his birthplace. ‘It’s more of a winter soup really, with pork and chorizo and beans and greens and wine and garlic and pretty much anything else you can find to throw in.’

  ‘It’s not...’

  ‘Not?’ He turned round again as her words tailed off, only this time his gleaming black gaze pierced through her like a sword. ‘Not what, Hollie?’

  ‘Well, it’s not the kind of food I can imagine someone like you eating, let alone cooking.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Hollie traced her finger along a deep gouge in the ancient table and wondered how long ago it had been put there and by whom. ‘It’s more I imagine the food a labourer might eat.’

  ‘And I’m no labourer?’

  She smiled at the preposterousness of this. ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said softly. ‘But once I was.’

  She glanced up from the table, watching as he put a lid on the pot and turned the heat down low. ‘You? A labourer?’

  Maximo didn’t answer immediately, amazed he’d given her an opening to pursue this particular topic because discussions about his past were something he vetoed. Especially with lovers. Women always asked questions and he understood why. Knowledge was power and the more you knew about someone, the closer you could presume your relationship to be. Except that any ‘closeness’ his lovers presumed was all inside their heads. Usually he recommended they consult the Internet if they wanted to discover more about him, confident they’d find out only what he wanted them to know—having successfully kept his online profile deliberately sparse, by employing an IT expert who made sure that happened.

  His past was private and his alone—and the only time he connected with it was during this ritual he followed most Christmases, when he cooked up the kind of food which would never feature on the menu of any of the fancy restaurants he frequented these days. At Christmas he went back to basics. He did it because it reminded him of who he had been and where he had come from, and usually it was enough to make him satisfied with his lot and to remind him what he didn’t want from life.

  But something had happened which had changed the way he thought about everything, and though it pained him to admit it—it all stemmed from his mother’s recent passing. Didn’t seem to matter that he didn’t want to be affected by the death of a woman he had despised. Fact was, he was. Ever since it had happened he’d felt...disconnected. Like a tethered balloon whose string had just been cut, leaving him drifting aimlessly and without direction. As if all the money and power he had acquired along the way suddenly meant nothing. Was that why he had taken this provincial office worker to bed and lost himself in a storm of passion so all-pervasive that it had left him feeling dazed and confused the next morning? As if, for the first time in his life, it had felt as if he’d come home.

  Wasn’t that why he hadn’t contacted her again? Because he didn’t like the way she made him feel, or because he didn’t trust those feelings?

  He didn’t know and he didn’t care and that was why he had walked away. Why he had resisted the surprising desire to contact her again. And time was great for taking the urgency out of desire. It had been easy to lose himself in work and travel and to allow the many projects he juggled to take over his life. To forget about that night and the woman who had temporarily made him lose control.

  Yet now, as he stared into the wide grey eyes which were fixed on his, he found himself wanting to tell her stuff. Nothing too deep. No, definitely not that. But it would amuse him to reveal his beginnings to her, to show her some of the real man beneath the fancy patina. Would take his mind off the persistent urge to pull her into his arms and start kissing her, which would complicate his life in a way it didn’t need complicating.

  ‘Yes, I was a labourer,’ he said. ‘And if you know my roots you might be able to understand why. I was the only child of a single mother, and money was scarce. I remember being hungry—always hungry. My need to get food took precedence over schoolwork and the local school wasn’t up to much anyway. And when I was fourteen, I started working on the roads.’

  ‘Fourteen?’ she breathed, her eyes growing even wider. ‘Wow. Is that even legal?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ He shrugged. ‘But there weren’t so many checks back then. It was a different kind of world. The guy who owned the construction site didn’t know how old I was and if they had, they probably wouldn’t have cared.’

  ‘You mean you lied about your age?’ she questioned, as if that were important to her.

  ‘I let them believe what they wanted to believe. That’s mostly what people do in life, Hollie—haven’t you discovered that by now? I was big and strong for my age and looked much older than I was, and it was easy to let my work speak for itself. I started out with a pick and shovel. Breaking up rocks with a big hammer and trying not to inhale the dust. I learnt a lot about construction.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘But I learnt plenty more about human nature.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Her voice was soft. Way too soft to resist—and for some reason, Maximo didn’t even try.

  ‘I learnt how to fight,’ he admitted. ‘I learnt how a man can lose everything through drink, and that gambling is nothing but a short journey to ruin. But mostly I learnt that I didn’t want to hang round doing that kind of work for ever.’

  ‘No, I can imagine you didn’t. So how did you make the leap, from being a—?’

  ‘Labourer?’ Her head was bent as she traced all the scratches on the table with the tip of her finger, as if she were trying not to meet his gaze. And wasn’t there a bit of him which was glad about that? Because those beautiful grey eyes were cool and searching and it wasn’t easy to ignore their candid gaze.

  ‘It wasn’t rocket science,’ he continued. ‘I made sure I was always the first to arrive and the last to leave and I saved every euro I could to buy my first digger. Eventually that one digger became five, and then twenty—and soon I was the sub-contractor of choice for the big boys.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Until I became one of the big boys myself. I started building roads and then railways, and I never really looked back.’ Most emphatically he had not looked back.

  She absorbed all this in silence for a moment. ‘It’s not—’

  ‘Not what you expected?’ he supplied acidly. ‘You imagined I was born with the Spanish equivalent of a silver spoon in my mouth? Nacer en cuna de oro. That I grew up with money?’

  ‘Something like that. You seem very comfortable with your wealth. Comfortable in your own skin.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said gravely, and was aware of the warm approbation in his voice as he said it. Her look of surprise indicated she’d heard it too, but then she was unaware that she had just paid him a great compliment—perhaps the greatest compliment of all. For hadn’t that been what he had strived for above all else? To feel comfortable in his own skin.

  But then she ruined it.

  ‘And you have a kind of—I don’t know.’ She wriggled her shoulders. ‘A kind of aristocratic look about you.’

  Maximo’s lips clamped shut, telling himself to be grateful that her perceptive observation had brought him to his senses at last. What was the matter with him? Hadn’t he been just about to tell her the rest of his pitiful story, lulled by her soft voice and seeking eyes? And why—just because his estranged mother was dead and his
equilibrium had temporarily been disturbed?

  Hadn’t he spent the last two decades eradicating those memories—only to almost blurt them out to a woman who already had too much power over him? Because her pregnancy gave Hollie Walker undue influence in his life, he recognised suddenly—and she could use that influence any way she saw fit.

  He gave the pot another stir. He had carefully controlled his image for most of his life. He never gave interviews, never let people too close. He worked hard and played hard and donated generously to charity—and for these qualities he was mostly admired and envied in equal measure. But of himself he gave nothing away. Even during his longest relationships—and none of those had ever been what you’d call lengthy—he had never been anything less than guarded. Hadn’t that been part of his appeal—that women saw him as an enigma and a challenge and themselves as the one who would break down those high barriers with which he had surrounded himself?

  But Hollie was different. She couldn’t help but be different. She was carrying his baby and, inevitably, that was going to cause ripples of curiosity in the circles in which he moved. Sooner or later people were going to find out that this unknown Englishwoman was pregnant with his child. She would be able to present herself to the world however she saw fit. As a victim, if she so desired. And he would have absolutely no control over that.

  He felt the sudden knot in his stomach. He had already told her plenty about himself, but of her he knew nothing. Nothing at all. Wasn’t it time he did? Not because he particularly cared what made her tick, but because he needed to redress that balance of knowledge.

  He pulled out the stool opposite hers and sat down. ‘What about you?’ he questioned, carelessly.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I’ve told you how I started out. Now it’s your turn.’

  Hollie hesitated. He had divulged much more than she’d expected, though she’d noticed that his story had stopped very abruptly. But he had still surprised her and maybe if he hadn’t been so forthcoming she might have brushed over her own background, because it wasn’t much to write home about, was it? Even so, it was more than a little distracting to have him sitting so close, making her acutely aware of all the latent power in his muscular body and the devilish gleam of his ebony eyes.

  ‘I was the only child of a single mother, too,’ she began and saw a muscle begin working at his temple, as if he thought she was grasping for things they had in common and was irritated by it. Instantly, she sought to emphasise the differences between them. ‘We weren’t exactly poor, but we weren’t exactly rich either. My father...’

  ‘What about your father?’ he probed.

  She shrugged. ‘Well, to be honest, I never knew him very well. He was a bit of a womaniser, I guess. Good-looking. Easy company. One of those men who want to have their cake and eat it. He was a sales manager and so travelled around the area a lot. He had several different lovers, although only one child, as far as I know. He’d tell my mother he loved her and he’d move in with us for a bit and then...’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know if having a baby cramped his style, or whether he found it stultifying that the whole household always seemed to revolve around him. But the more my mother ran round after him, the more he seemed to despise her. So they’d have a big row and he’d move out and then the whole cycle would start again.’

  ‘That must have been tough on you,’ he observed slowly.

  ‘Not really.’ Hollie slipped into her best every-cloud-has-a-silver-lining attitude. ‘It’s true that Mum used to go to pieces every time, but it’s how I taught myself how to cook, and...’

  ‘Go on,’ he said, the faintest of smiles touching the edges of his mouth.

  She picked up the story again, thinking that nobody ever really asked her stuff like this. ‘One day my father just stopped contacting her and we never found out what happened to him. Like you said, things were different in those days and there was no social media to be able to track someone down. My mum never really got over it and after she died, I sold her little house and went to catering college. Long story short, I made a friend there and used the rest of my savings to go into business with her—we opened a tea shop in London.’

  ‘But? I sense there’s a but coming.’

  He was insightful, she thought—or maybe such a successful businessman was always going to have an instinct for a duff business venture. ‘My partner borrowed a whole load of money on the business and couldn’t pay it back.’

  ‘That’s theft,’ he observed acidly.

  ‘She meant to pay it back,’ she defended. ‘But that was never going to happen and I couldn’t bear to waste any more time, or make any more bad memories by chasing her through the small courts. Anyway, we’d chosen a hopeless location. It was more a hip coffee shop sort of area and not really suited to a venue which was serving dinky plates of scones, with cream and jam. It’s why I came to Devon, which is that kind of place. It’s why, no matter what happens, I’m glad you came here too, Maximo.’

  He looked startled. ‘You are?’

  ‘Yes, I am. Not because of the baby, because I know that’s bad news for you.’ She ignored the pained expression on his face but resolutely carried on. ‘It wasn’t meant to happen, but it did—and I will do everything to make sure our child has the best possible life I can give them. And I’ve lived with a man who didn’t want to be a father, which is why I can cope with the fact you don’t want to be involved. It’s better that way. Better that we’re upfront about things from the beginning so everyone knows where they stand—’

  ‘Hollie—’

  ‘No, please let me finish.’ She drew a deep breath and stared straight into his fathoms-deep eyes, thinking how thick and black the lashes were. ‘What makes me glad is the fact that you’ve bought Kastelloes, because you’ll be injecting life back into this town and local community. So my business—and every other business in Trescombe—will benefit.’ He got up quickly to attend to his cooking, an uncomfortable expression crossing his face, and she wondered if she was boring him. ‘Gosh, it’s seven o’clock already,’ she observed, sneaking a glance at her watch. ‘Only five more hours to go and it’ll be Christmas Day!’

  ‘I can hardly wait,’ he said sarcastically.

  She watched as he finished cooking the meal, wishing she could tear her eyes away from the graceful agility of his movements and the way his black jeans clung to the hard thrust of his buttocks. But she couldn’t. And all the while she was becoming aware of the four walls which surrounded them and the fact that they were completely alone in this beautiful, desolate building. She could feel tension between them mounting—like dark layers of something tantalising, building and building into the promise of something unbearably sweet.

  ‘Let’s eat,’ he said suddenly.

  But his face was still tense as he began to serve up the soup, his shadow seeming to swamp her in an all-consuming darkness. And somehow his abrupt words managed to destroy the fragile harmony which had briefly existed between them.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  HOLLIE SHIVERED AS she lay huddled beneath the heap of the velvet throws, wiggling her toes to stop them from freezing. It was so quiet. Nothing to listen to except the sound of the distant church bells in nearby Trescombe. Nothing to distract her from the thought that Maximo was sleeping just along the corridor and that felt weird. Was he thinking about her and her predicament, or was he fast asleep and oblivious to the presence of his unwanted guest? She cocked her ear as the twelfth and final bell faded into the silent night, announcing to the world that Christmas day had finally arrived.

  Some Christmas! She was stuck in a cold, almost empty castle with a man who didn’t want her there. She turned her pillow over and bashed it with her fist. Didn’t matter how many sheep she tried to count, she just couldn’t sleep. In fact, she had dozed only fitfully since she’d retired to bed just after ten last night, leaving Maximo downstairs, working in the libra
ry.

  Their shared supper had been awkward, to say the least. Oh, the food had been delicious—no doubt about that. Maximo’s Cantabrian mountain stew had hit the spot and the tycoon had waited on her in a way she suspected was totally out of character. She had been impressed by his culinary skills and had said so. But Hollie hadn’t been impervious to the unspoken words which had seemed to dangle in the air like invisible baubles. Just as she’d been unable to ignore the spiralling tension which curled like smoke in the base of her stomach whenever he came near.

  But last night had been about more than sexual chemistry and, although his powerful presence had been impossible to ignore, Hollie had learnt a little more about the father of her child. It had been an illuminating insight to discover that his wealth hadn’t been handed to him on a plate, but he was a self-made man, and that revelation had made her feel an undoubted respect towards him. Yet afterwards it was as if he regretted having told her anything at all, because when she had tried to ask him about growing up in those harsh circumstances, he had very firmly changed the subject. And after that, things had become a little stilted.

  It hadn’t exactly helped that she had nothing to sleep in and when she’d plucked up courage to ask Maximo if he had a pyjama top she could borrow, he had stared at her as if she had taken leave of her senses.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ he’d questioned, black eyes narrowed. ‘I never wear anything in bed.’

  It had proved yet one more awkward moment in a whole series of them and in Hollie’s opinion, that was far too much information to take on board, in the circumstances. Berating her naïve stupidity and hiding her sudden blush by leaping to her feet, she had escaped upstairs and run herself a bath—more to get warm than anything else. But when she had returned to her room she had found a T-shirt lying on top of the velvet heap of bedcovers, which Maximo must have left there for her. A black T-shirt with the word Legend inscribed across the front. Pulling it on, she had momentarily revelled in the feel of the soft material against her clean skin—even though the garment had swamped her. And wasn’t she aware—on some fundamental level—that she got a kick out of wearing it because he had worn it, too?