The Mister

“Oh?”

Danny again? Who is she? Why won’t he talk about her?

Leaning down, he kisses Alessia. “More champagne?”

“No thank you. I will get dressed.”

* * *

Oh. From her tone I think she wants me to leave her alone while she dresses. “You okay?” I ask. Her small smile and nod confirm that she’s fine. “Good,” I mumble, and return to the bathroom to collect our glasses and the Laurent-Perrier.

The sun has finally disappeared, shrouding the horizon in darkness. Downstairs in the kitchen, I switch on the lights and put the champagne in the fridge while I consider Alessia Demachi.

Man, she’s unexpected.

She seems happier and more relaxed, but I’m not sure if it was the foot massage, the bath, the champagne, or the sex. Watching her response in the bath had been a carnal treat. When she closed her eyes and moaned as I massaged her feet, she was breathtaking, her sexuality innate.

The possibilities…

For fuck’s sake.

I shake my head at my lascivious thoughts.

I was determined to leave her alone.

Determined.

But when I finally surrendered to my grief, she distracted and comforted me. And I succumbed…to a woman wearing SpongeBob pajamas and an old Arsenal FC shirt. I can scarcely believe it.

I wonder what Kit would have made of Alessia.

You’re not fucking the staff, are you, Spare?

No. Kit probably would not have approved of what I’ve done, though he would have liked Alessia. He always had an eye for a pretty girl.

“This house is so warm,” Alessia says, interrupting my thoughts. She stands in front of the kitchen counter wearing those pajama bottoms and the white top.

“Too warm?” I ask.

“No.”

“Good. More fizz?”

“Fizz?”

“Champagne?”

“Yes. Please.”

I retrieve the bottle from the fridge and charge our glasses once more.

“What would you like to do?” I ask once she’s taken a sip. I know what I want to do, but given she’s sore, it’s probably not a good idea.

Maybe later tonight.

Taking her glass, Alessia sits down on one of the sofas in the reading area and eyes the chess set on the coffee table. The entry phone buzzes.

“That will be Danny,” I say, and release the latch at the entry phone.

Alessia leaps up from the sofa.

“It’s okay. There’s nothing to worry about,” I reassure her.

Through the glass wall, I watch Danny take hesitant steps down the steep, illuminated stone stairway carrying a white plastic crate. It looks heavy.

I open the door and trot out in my bare feet to meet her halfway up the steps.

Fuck. The ground’s freezing.

“Danny. Let me take that.”

“I’ve got it. Maxim, you’ll catch your death of cold out here,” she scolds, her expression disapproving. “I mean, my lord,” she adds as an afterthought.

“Danny. Give me the crate.” I’m not taking no for an answer.

Pursing her lips, she hands it to me, and I grin at her. “Thank you for this.”

“I’ll come and put it on for you.”

“It’s fine. I’m sure I can work it out.”

“It would be much easier if you were up at the house, sir.”

“I know. I’m sorry. And thank Jessie for me.”

“It’s your favorite. Oh, and Jessie put a spud jack in the crate for the potatoes. They’ve already been in the microwave, so they shouldn’t take long to crisp up. Now, get inside with you. You’re not wearing shoes.” She scowls while shooing me into the house. And because it’s freezing, I do as I’m told. Through the full-height windows, she spies Alessia on the sofa and gives her a wave, which Alessia returns.

“Thank you,” I call from the shelter of the doorway with its cozy underfloor heating. I don’t introduce her to Alessia. I know it’s rude. But I really want to remain in our bubble for a little longer. Introductions can happen later.

Danny shakes her head, her white hair ruffled by the chilly wind, and turns to go back up the steps. I watch her ascend. She hasn’t changed in all the years I’ve known her. This woman has tended my grazed knees, bandaged my cuts and scrapes, and iced my bruises since I was old enough to walk—always in her plaid skirt and stout shoes, never in trousers. No. I smile; it’s Jessie, her partner for twelve years, who wears the trousers in that relationship. Briefly I wonder if they’re ever going to marry. It’s been legal for long enough. They have no excuse.

“Who is that?” Alessia asks, and peeks into the crate.

“That’s Danny. I told you, she lives near here, and she’s brought our supper.” I retrieve the casserole dish from inside the crate. There are four large potatoes, and my mouth waters when I spot the banoffee pie.

Man, Jessie can cook.

“The stew needs heating, and we can have it with baked potatoes. Sound okay?”

“Yes. It is very okay.”

“Very okay?”

“Yes.” She blinks. “My English?”

“Is great,” I answer, and, grinning, I brandish the spiked potato baker from the crate.

“I can do that,” she says, though she looks a little doubtful.

“No. I’ll do it.” I rub my hands together. “I’m feeling domestic this evening, and trust me—it doesn’t happen often. So take advantage.”

Alessia arches a brow, amused, as if she’s seeing me in an entirely new light. I hope it’s a good thing.

“Here.” In one of the cupboards, I find an ice bucket. “You can fill this with ice. The fridge in the scullery dispenses ice. It’s for the champagne.”

A glass or two later, Alessia is curled up on one of the turquoise sofas, her feet tucked beneath her, watching me while I finish putting the stew in the oven.

“Do you play?” I ask, as I come and sit beside her. Alessia’s eyes flick to the marble chess set and back to me, her expression unreadable.

“A little,” she says, and takes a sip of her drink.

“A little, eh?” It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow. What does she mean? Without taking my eyes off her, I grab a white pawn and a gray one and shuffle them between my cupped hands and offer them to her in my fists. She licks her top lip and deliberately traces her index finger over the back of one hand. A tremor runs from my hand up my arm and directly to my dick.

Wow.

“This one,” she says, looking up at me through inky lashes. I shift in my seat, trying to bring my body under control, and turn up my palm. It’s the gray pawn. “Black.” I turn the board so that the gray chess pieces are in front of her. “Okay. I’ll start.”

Four moves in and I’m dragging my hands through my hair. “As usual, you’ve been holding out on me, haven’t you?” My tone is wry. Alessia bites her top lip in an effort to suppress her smile and look serious. But her eyes are alive with amusement as she watches me struggle to outmaneuver her.

Of course she can play like an ace.

Man, she is full of surprises.

I scowl in the hope that it’ll intimidate her into making a mistake. Her smile broadens, lighting up her beautiful face, and I can’t help my answering grin.

She is stunning.

“You’re rather good at this,” I observe.

She shrugs. “There is not much to do in Kukës. At home we have an old computer but no games consoles and clever phones. Piano, chess, and books, and some TV, that is what we have.” She glances at the bookshelf at the end of the room, her eyes full of appreciation.