Page 2 of Cinderella's Christmas Secret

And wasn’t that another reason for making sure this party was a success? Because Maximo Diaz’s purchase of the old castle on top of the big hill outside town had the potential to herald a new golden age in local tourism and Hollie wanted to be part of it. It hadn’t been a hotel for years but was crying out for some love and attention. And if the enigmatic Spaniard was an unlikely candidate to play the part of neighbourhood saviour—well, that was what life was like. Sometimes it threw up surprises and you discovered that people didn’t always fit into the little boxes you tried to squeeze them into. Just because a man was an impossibly wealthy global superstar, didn’t mean he couldn’t also be a good man, did it?

Remembering Janette’s parting words, Hollie pulled the scrunchy from her hair and shook her head to let her hair tumble down around her shoulders. It was a colour best described as light brown, though some of the bitchier girls at school used to call it ‘mousy’. But it was clean and shiny and it streamed abundantly over her breasts, effectively hiding that rather scary glimpse of cleavage.

The final touch was a red and green hat with a bell on the end and the sound of it jangling like a cash register as she crammed it over her head made Hollie smile. One day soon she would open her very own tea shop and, although she wasn’t planning on wearing quite such a revealing uniform, tonight’s event would be perfect practice for her future career of serving the public. Wobbling a little in her spindly heels, she headed for the door.

Christmas elf?

How hard could it be?

He didn’t want to be here.

Despite the fact that he was poised on the brink of a venture guaranteed to net him even more millions, Maximo Diaz was feeling even more detached than usual.

He looked around at a room which, bizarrely, was decorated with thick streamers of glittering tinsel—even though it was still only October. A giant fir dominated one wall and tiny golden and silver lights twinkled in every available corner of the room. Christmas had, it seemed, come ridiculously early to this one-horse town, with its distant glimpses of the sea and the bleak sweeping moorland which lay to the east.

His mouth hardened.

The truth was, he didn’t want to be anywhere right now. Not at either of his homes in Madrid or New York and certainly not here in Devon. Because everywhere he went he took himself with him and ‘here’ was inside his head, listening to clamouring thoughts which would not be silenced. For the first time in his life, he was finding it difficult to switch off and that disturbed him.

In his past there had been troubles. Of course there had. Everyone had troubles and sometimes he felt as i

f he’d netted more than his fair share. Bleak, dark events which had come out of nowhere and threatened to blindside him, although in the end they had bounced off him like hailstones on a pavement because he had willed them to. He had schooled himself to cultivate a steely self-control and had always prided himself on his ability to shrug off hardship. To step away from chaos, resilient and untouched, like a phoenix rising from the ashes. But back then youth, hunger and ambition had been on his side, shielding him against hurt and shielding him against pain. He had come to the conclusion that he was one of those lucky few who were immune to hurt. And if that meant people—usually women—were prone to describe him as cold and unfeeling. Well, he could live with that.

Yet who would have thought the death of someone he’d despised could have pierced his heart so ragged? How was that even possible? He hadn’t seen her in years. Hadn’t wanted to—and with good reason. He should have felt anger or injustice or resentment—maybe all three—as he’d said goodbye to the woman who had given birth to him, summoned to her bedside by the nuns who had cared for her during her final days. Yet it hadn’t been like that. He shook his head. His reaction had surprised him. And angered him too, because he hadn’t wanted to feel that way. As he’d held her papery hand with its dark tracery of veins, he had felt a deep sorrow welling up inside him. He had been overwhelmed by a sense of something lost, which now eluded him for ever.

And he didn’t do that kind of emotion. Not now and not ever.

But he had to carry on. To brush off pointless grief and make like it had never happened. What other choice was there for someone who had turned indifference into an art form? He would get over it because he always did. And he would forgive himself for that rare foray into the saccharine world of sentimentality, because that was a place which held no allure for him.

He would continue with his inexorable rise to the top. He would keep on making a fortune from fundamentally changing the infrastructure of different countries. Building roads and building railways and creating a turnover which caused his competitors to shake their heads with frustration and awe. He had added a luxury hotel chain to his portfolio now and was surrounded by the kind of wealth which, strangely and rather disturbingly, had not brought him the satisfaction he’d sought. But it certainly made women’s eyes grow wide whenever they stepped over the threshold of one of his homes or slid into the leather-bound luxury of his private jet. And just because he had more money than he would ever need in several lifetimes, didn’t mean he wanted to slow down. Because he liked success. He liked it a lot. Not because of the material rewards it reaped, but for the glow of achievement it provided, no matter how fleeting that feeling proved to be. It was as if he was intent on proving himself over and over again, if not to the father and mother who had rejected him, then maybe to himself.

‘Can I tempt you with something to eat, Señor Diaz?’

A soft voice broke into Maximo’s reverie and, glad to have the dark tangle of his thoughts interrupted, he turned his head to see a woman standing there, a tray of food in her hands. But it wasn’t the unappetising fare which caught his attention and held it, as much as her appearance.

Tempt him? She most certainly could.

His narrowed his eyes, because the thought came out of nowhere, especially as she looked faintly ridiculous in her fancy-dress costume. A sudden pulse beat at his temple and he felt the inexplicable drying of his mouth. Ridiculous, yes—but kind of sexy, too. No. Scrub that. Very sexy.

For a moment he thought she seemed faintly familiar, but the thought instantly left him because he was finding it difficult not to stare. And difficult to breathe. Who wouldn’t when she looked so...spectacular? He swallowed as he continued with his silent scrutiny. Rich green velvet emphasised the porcelain paleness of her skin and a band of white fur at her shoulders drew his attention to her creamy flesh—which was unfashionably soft and abundant. Maximo allowed his gaze to move down, distracted by long legs which seemed to go all the way up to her armpits, an illusion no doubt helped by her teetering shoes. Sexy, scarlet shoes—and most men didn’t bother denying their reaction to that kind of footwear.

Yet, in direct contrast to the provocation of those killer heels, she wore not a scrap of make-up on her milk-pale face and the healthy sway of hair which gleamed beneath the fairy lights made Maximo experience something he hadn’t felt in quite a while. A stealthy but insistent tug of desire, which pulsed through his veins like sweet, dark honey.

His mouth twisted self-deprecatingly. Surely the healthy libido which seemed to have deserted him of late hadn’t been stirred by something as off-the-wall as a woman in fancy dress? Maybe his sexual appetite had become so jaded that he was being tempted by a little seasonal role play.

‘Um...we have a selection of delicious canapés on offer,’ she was saying, her words tumbling over themselves, and something about the softness of her voice made his skin prickle with recognition once more. ‘We’ve got pineapple and cheese on sticks and vol-au-vents—or there’s mini quiche, if you prefer.’

‘Mini quiche?’ he echoed sardonically, dropping his gaze to survey something unrecognisable which was stabbed unappetisingly onto the end of a cocktail stick, and maybe she picked up on his tone because when he looked up again, her face had turned very pink.

‘I know they’re not to everyone’s taste—’

His mouth twisted. ‘You can say that again.’

‘But the tourist board suggested we go with a retro theme,’ she defended.

He found himself unexpectedly charmed by her blush, for when was the last time that had happened? ‘And why would that be, I wonder?’

‘Because nostalgia is big, especially at Christmas.’ She hesitated, as if establishing whether he really did want to talk to her or whether he was just being polite. ‘Isn’t that the whole point of it?’

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