A Will, a Wish...a Proposal. Jessica Gilmore
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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?’
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