The Mister

“Books?”

“Oh, yes. Many, many books. In Albanian and English. I wanted to be an English teacher.” She studies the board for

a moment, all humor gone.

Now she’s a cleaner on the run from sex-trafficking thugs.

“But you enjoy reading?”

“Yes.” She brightens. “Especially in English. My grandmother smuggled books into the country.”

“You mentioned that. Sounds risky.”

“Yes. It was dangerous for her. Books in English were banned by the Communists.”

Banned!

Once again I realize that I know very little about her homeland.

Dude, concentrate.

I take her knight, feeling smug. But one glance at her face tells me she’s hiding her smirk. She slides her rook left three squares and chuckles. “Schah…no. Check.”

Shit!

“Okay, our first and last game of chess,” I grumble as I shake my head in self-disgust.

This is like playing Maryanne. She always beats me.

Alessia tucks her hair behind her ear, takes another sip of champagne, and twirls her gold cross with her fingers. She’s thoroughly enjoying herself—thrashing me.

It’s a humbling moment.

Concentrate.

Three moves later she has me.

“Checkmate,” she says, assessing me intently, and her solemn expression steals my breath away.

“Well played, Alessia Demachi,” I whisper as desire heats my blood. “You’re very good at this.”

She glances at the board, breaking the spell. When she raises her head, she gives me a coy smile. “I played chess with my grandfather since I am six years. He was—how do you say?—a demon player. And he wanted to win. Even against a child.”

“He taught you well,” I murmur, recovering my equilibrium. What I really want to do is take her right here on the sofa. I consider pouncing on her—but concede that we should eat first.

“Is he still alive?” I ask.

“No, he died when I am twelve years.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He had a good life.”

“You say you wanted to be an English teacher. What happened?”

“My university closed. They had no money. And my courses stopped.”

“Well, that sucks.”

She giggles. “Yes. It sucks. But I like working with little children. And I teach them music and read English to them. But only for two days each week, as I am not…what is the word? Qualified. And I help my mother at home. Another game?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I think my ego might need some time to recover before we do that again. Are you hungry?”

She nods.

“Good. That stew smells amazing, and I’m starving.” Beef stew with prunes is my favorite of all Jessie’s dishes. She used to cook it for winter shoots on the estate when Kit, Maryanne, and I were pressed into service as beaters, driving the birds toward the guns. The aroma is tantalizing. After all our activities today, I’m famished.

* * *

Alessia insists on dishing up, and I let her do that while I set the table. Surreptitiously I watch her as she busies herself in the kitchen. Her movements are neat and elegant. She has an intrinsic, sensuous grace, and I wonder if she’s ever been a dancer. When she turns, her glorious hair spills down around her elfin face, and with a delicate flick of her wrist she flips it out of the way. Her long, slender fingers hold the knife as she slices open the baked potatoes, releasing wisps of steam. With her brow fixed in concentration, she spreads butter on them, and she stops to lick some melted butter from her index finger.

My groin tightens.

Oh, sweet Lord.

She glances up and catches me watching her.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Nothing.” My voice is gruff. I clear my throat. “I just like looking at you. You’re quite lovely.” I move quickly and fold her in my arms, taking her by surprise. “I’m glad you’re here with me.” My lips meet hers in a quick, loving kiss.

“I am glad, too,” she says with a shy smile. “Maxim.” My face splits in two. I love hearing my name in her accent. I grab our plates.

“Let’s eat.”

* * *

The beef-and-prune stew is aromatic, sweet, and tender. “Mmm,” Alessia murmurs, closing her eyes in appreciation. “I shijshëm.”

“Is that Albanian for ‘I hate this’?” Maxim asks.

She giggles. “No. It’s delicious. Tomorrow I will cook for you.”

“Do you?” he asks.

“Cook?” Alessia places her hand on her heart, affronted. “Of course. I am an Albanian woman. All Albanian women cook.”

“Okay. We’ll go shopping tomorrow for ingredients.” His grin is infectious, but as he regards her, his face grows more serious.

“One day,” he says, “will you tell me the whole story?”

“Story?” Her heart begins to thud.

“Of how and why you came to England.”

“Yes. One day,” she says.

One day. One day! ONE DAY!

Her heart skips a beat. Those two words imply a tangible future with this man.

Don’t they?

But as what?

Alessia is confused about how men and women interact in England. It’s different in Kukës. She’s seen enough American TV shows—when her mother wasn’t monitoring what she was watching—and in London she’s seen how free and easy men and women are in public together. Kissing. Talking. Holding hands. And she knows that these couples are not married. They are lovers.

Maxim holds her hand.

They talk.

He makes love to her….

Lovers.

Surely that’s what she and Mister Maxim are now.

Lovers.

Hope stirs in her heart, and it’s a rousing but scary sensation. She loves him. She should tell him. But she’s too shy to declare herself. And she doesn’t know how he feels about her. But she knows she would walk to the end of the earth for him.

“Would you like dessert?” he asks.

Alessia pats her stomach. “I am full.”

“It’s banoffee pie.”

“Banoffee?”

“Bananas, toffee, and cream.”

She shakes her head. “No thank you.”

He takes their empty plates to the kitchen counter and returns with a slice of banoffee pie. Sitting down, he places the plate on the table and takes a bite. “Mmm…” he says with exaggerated appreciation.

“You are teasing me. You want me to want your dessert?” she says.

“I want you to want a great many things. Right now it’s dessert.” Maxim smirks and licks his lips. With his fork he scoops up a small piece smothered in cream and offers it to her. “Eat,” he whispers, his voice seductive and his heated stare mesmerizing. In response, she parts her lips and accepts the mouthful.

Oh, Zot i madh!

She closes her eyes and savors the confection as it dissolves. It’s a sweet slice of heaven. When she focuses on him again, he’s smiling with an I-told-you-so grin. He presents her with another, larger piece. This time she opens her mouth without hesitating. But he pops it into his own mouth, grinning with mischief as he chews. She laughs. He is so playful. She pouts, and he rewards her with a wicked grin and another bite of pie. His eyes stray to her lips as he gently wipes the corner of her mouth with his index finger.

“You missed this,” he murmurs, holding up his cream-smeared finger. Gone is his humor. It’s replaced by a darker, simmering look. Alessia’s pulse thrums faster. And she doesn’t know if it’s the champagne that’s making her bolder or his scorching gaze, but she surrenders to her instincts. Leaning in toward his finger and with her eyes on his, she licks the cream off with the tip of her tongue. Maxim closes his eyes, and a low hum of appreciation rumbles in his throat. Emboldened by his reaction, she licks again, then kisses the tip before gently

teasing it with her teeth. Maxim’s eyes fly open, and she closes her lips around his finger and sucks. Hard.

Mmm…He tastes clean. Male.

Maxim’s mouth drops open. Alessia continues to suck, watching his pupils dilate as his eyes linger on her mouth. His response is arousing. Who knew she had the power to stir him? It’s a revelation. She scrapes her teeth against the pad of his finger, and he groans.

“Screw the pie,” he says, almost to himself and he withdraws his finger slowly from her mouth. He clasps her head and kisses her, his tongue going the way of his finger. Wet. Hot. Exploring and claiming her. Alessia responds immediately, her fingers twisting in his hair and hungrily kissing him back. He tastes of banoffee pie and Maxim. It’s a heady mix.

“Bed or chess?” he murmurs against her lips.

Again? Yes! A thrill travels at light speed through her body.

“Bed.”

“Good answer.” He caresses her cheek, brushing his thumb across her bottom lip, and smiles, his eyes alight with sensual promise. Taking each other’s hand, they walk upstairs. On the threshold of the bedroom, he flips the wall switch so that only the bedside lamps illuminate the room. He turns unexpectedly and kisses her, his hands on each side of her face as he backs her against the wall. Her heart begins to pound as he presses his body along the length of hers. He wants her. She can feel him.

“Touch me,” he breathes. “Everywhere.” And his lips are on hers again, possessive and needy, coaxing a moan from deep in her throat. “Yes. Let me hear you.” His hands slide down to her waist. She splays her hands on his chest while his lips continue to savor her mouth. When he releases her, they are both panting. He rests his forehead against hers, their breath mingling, both of them straining for air.

“What you do to me.” His voice is as soft as a spring breeze. He looks down at her, the longing in his eyes burning into her soul. He grips the hem of her top and pulls it over her head. She’s naked beneath, and her natural inclination is to cover her breasts. But he catches her hands and grips them, keeping his eyes on hers. “You’re stunning. Don’t hide.” He kisses her again while interlacing his fingers with hers so they are palm to palm. Holding her still, he continues the sweet invasion of her mouth. When she pulls away for air, he kisses her throat, her jaw, and his teeth skim her chin before he plants large wet kisses on the pulse point at her neck.