The Mister

Shit.

She’s almost my employee. I need to sort out her employment status sooner rather than later. I don’t want Oliver or the Revenue breathing down my neck.

“What happened to Krystyna? I liked the old bird,” Tom says as he rubs his face.

“Krystyna’s gone back to Poland. Now, will you go and put some fucking clothes on? There is a lady present, for fuck’s sake,” I growl.

“Lady?”

Tom pales at the look I give him, and for once he doesn’t rise to the bait. “Sorry, old chap. I’ll go and get dressed. Milk, no sugar for me.” He shuffles out of the kitchen and back to the guest room. I chide myself for inviting my friends to stay when Alessia is working here. I’m not going to make that mistake again.

* * *

Alessia has managed to avoid the men for most of the morning, and she’s glad when they finally leave. She even contemplated hiding in the forbidden room, but Krystyna had been adamant. She is not to enter.

She’s cleared the blankets off the sofa in the living room and has stripped and remade the bed in the spare room. His bedroom is now tidy, and she was surprised and delighted to note there were still no used condoms in the wastebasket. Perhaps he’s disposing of them a different way. She doesn’t dwell on this thought, because it depresses her. She enters his walk-in closet to put away the ironing and gather up his dirty clothes. It’s only been a couple of days, but it’s a mess again.

The Mister is sitting at his computer and working, doing whatever it is that he does. She still has no idea how he makes his living. She recalls the smile that lit up his face when he first saw her this morning. His dazzling smile is contagious. Grinning like an idiot, she examines the pile of clothing on the floor of his closet. Kneeling down, she picks up one shirt, then glances quickly at the half-open door. Satisfied that she’s alone, she holds the shirt to her face, closes her eyes, and inhales his scent.

So good.

“There you are,” he says.

Alessia jumps and bolts upright rather too quickly, so that she stumbles backward. Two strong hands grab her arms and save her from falling.

“Easy,” he says, and gently holds her while she finds her balance. As soon as she does, to her regret, he releases her, but his touch still echoes through her body. “I was looking for a sweater. It’s a bright day, but cold. Are you warm enough?” he asks.

She nods vigorously, trying to catch her breath. Right now, in this small space with him, she’s too warm.

He surveys the pile of clothes on the floor and frowns. “It’s a mess, I know,” he mumbles with a sheepish expression on his face. “I’m pathologically untidy.”

“Path-o-log—”

“Pathological.”

“I do not know this word.”

“Oh…um…it refers to an extreme behavior.”

“I see,” Alessia responds, and she looks down at the clothes again and nods. “Yes. Pathological.” She gives him a wry expression, and he laughs.

“I’ll sort this out,” he says.

“No. No. I do it.” Alessia waves him away.

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“It is my job.”

He grins and reaches across her for a chunky cream sweater on one of the shelves. His arm brushes her shoulder, and she freezes as her heart goes into overdrive.

“Sorry,” he says, looking a little disheartened as he leaves the closet.

Once he’s gone, Alessia recovers her equilibrium.

Can he not tell the effect he has on me?

And he caught her sniffing his shirt. She covers her face. He must think she’s a complete idiot. Feeling mortified and angry with herself, she sinks to her knees and sorts through the pile of clothing, folding the clothes that don’t need washing and putting all his dirty stuff into the laundry basket.

* * *

I can’t keep my hands off her. Any excuse.

Leave her alone, dude.

And if I touch her, she freezes. I amble back to the drawing room, feeling glum. She just doesn’t like me.

Is this a first?

I think so. I’ve never struggled with women before. They’ve always been an easy diversion for me. With a healthy bank account, a flat in Chelsea, a pretty face, and an aristocratic family, I’ve never had a problem.

Ever.

Except now.

I should ask her out for a meal.

She looks like she could do with a decent meal.

Suppose she says no?

Then at least I’ll know.

I pace the length of the windowed wall in the drawing room, stopping to gaze out at the Peace Pagoda for a few minutes and trying to summon the nerve.

Why is this so difficult? Why her?

She’s beautiful. She’s talented.

She’s not interested.

Perhaps it’s as simple as that.

The first woman who’s ever said no.

She’s not said no. She might give me a chance.

Ask. Her. Out.

I take a deep breath and wander back into the hallway. She is standing outside my darkroom looking at the door and holding a laundry basket.

“It’s a darkroom,” I say as I stride toward her.

Her lovely brown eyes meet mine. She’s curious. And I remember that I’d asked Krystyna not to clean it sometime ago. It’s been a while since I’ve been in it myself.

“I’ll show you.” I’m grateful that she doesn’t back away like she normally does. “Do you want to see?”

She nods, and as I grab the laundry basket, my fingers brush hers. My heart slams against my ribs. “Let me have this.” My voice is gruff as I try to calm the pounding in my chest. Placing the basket on the floor behind me, I open the door, switch on the light, and stand aside to let her enter.

* * *

Alessia enters the small room. It glows with red light and smells of mysterious chemicals and the stale air of inactivity. There’s a bank of dark counter cabinets lining one wall, with large plastic trays on top. High above the cabinets are shelves crowded with bottles and stacks of paper and photographs. Beneath the shelves is an empty washing line from which a few pegs hang.

“It’s just a darkroom,” he says, and flicks on the dim overhead light so the red glow vanishes.

“Photography?” Alessia asks.

He nods. “It’s a hobby. I thought at one time I would take it up professionally.”

“The photographs in the apartment—you take them?”

“Yes. All of them. I had a few assignments, but…” His voice trails off.

The landscapes and the nudes.

“My father was a photographer.” He turns to a glass cabinet filled with cameras that’s behind him. He opens one of the doors and takes out a camera. Alessia catches the name “Leica” on the front.

* * *

Holding the camera up to my eye, I study Alessia through the lens. She is all dark eyes, long lashes, high cheekbones, and full, parted lips. My groin tightens.

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, and press the shutter.

Alessia’s mouth drops open, but she shakes her head and covers her face with her hands, though they don’t conceal her smile. I take another shot.

“You are,” I say. “Look.” And I hold the back of the camera out to her so that she can see the image. She stares down at her face that’s been captured digitally in fine detail and then looks up at me—and I’m lost. Lost in the magic of her dark, dark gaze. “See,” I murmur. “You’re stunning.” Reaching forward, I tip up her chin and, leaning down, inching closer and closer so she has a chance to move away, I brush my lips against hers. She gasps, and as I pull back, she touches her fingers to her mouth, her eyes growing rounder.

“That’s how I feel,” I whisper, my heart pounding.

/>   Will she slap me? Will she flee?

She stares at me. An ethereal vision in the muted light, she tentatively raises her hand and traces my lips with her fingertips. I freeze, closing my eyes as her tender touch reverberates through my body.

I daren’t breathe.

I don’t want to frighten her away.