The Mister

Does she find me repellent?

Maybe that’s it. She just doesn’t like me.

Hell, I don’t know what she thinks of me. I’m very much at a disadvantage. For all I know, she could be rummaging through my belongings right now, learning more about me. Figuring me out. I grimace. Maybe that’s why she dislikes me.

“She seems terrified of you,” Caroline observes.

“Who?” I ask, though I know full well who she’s talking about.

“Alessia.”

“I’m her boss.”

“You’re awfully touchy about her. I think she’s terrified because she’s crazy about you.”

“What? Now you’re hallucinating. She can barely stand to be in the same room as me.”

“QED.” Caroline shrugs.

I frown at her.

She sighs. “She can’t be in the same room as you because she likes you and doesn’t want to give herself away.”

“Caro, she’s my daily. That’s all.” I’m emphatic, and it’s an effort to throw Caroline off the scent, though this gives me hope. She smirks as the cab pulls up outside Bluebird. I hand the cabdriver a twenty, ignoring Caroline’s look.

“Keep the change,” I tell him as we climb out of the cab.

“That’s an excessive tip,” Caroline grumbles. I say nothing, too lost in thoughts of Alessia Demachi, and hold the door of the café open for her.

“So your mother thinks I should pick myself up by my bootstraps and get back to work?” Caroline says as we’re led to our table.

“She thinks you’re very talented and that working on the Mayfair development will be a welcome diversion.”

Caroline presses her lips together. “I think I need time,” she whispers, and her eyes dim with sadness.

“I understand.”

“We only buried him two weeks ago.” She pulls Kit’s sweater up to her nose and inhales.

“I know, I know,” I say, and wonder if his scent is still on the sweater.

I miss him, too. And actually, it’s thirteen days since his burial. Twenty-two days since he died.

I swallow the harsh, hard knot that forms in my throat.

* * *

I missed my workout this morning, so I vault up the stairs to my flat. Breakfast has taken longer than I intended, and I’m expecting Oliver at any minute. Part of me also hopes that Alessia will still be there. As I approach my front door, I hear music coming from the flat.

Music? What’s going on?

I slide my key into the lock and cautiously open the door. It’s Bach, one of his preludes in G Major. Perhaps Alessia is playing music through my computer. But how can she? She doesn’t know the password. Does she? Maybe she’s playing her phone through the sound system, though from the look of her tatty anorak she doesn’t strike me as someone who has a smartphone. I’ve never seen her with one. The music rings through my flat, lighting up its darkest corners.

Who knew that my daily likes classical?

This is a tiny piece of the Alessia Demachi puzzle. Quietly I close the door, but as I stand in the hallway, it becomes apparent that the music is not coming from the sound system. It’s from my piano. Bach. Fluid and light, played with a deftness and understanding I’ve only heard from concert-standard performers.

Alessia?

I’ve never managed to make my piano sing like this. Taking off my shoes, I creep down the hallway and peer around the door into the drawing room.

She is seated at the piano in her housecoat and scarf, swaying a little, completely lost in the music, her eyes closed in concentration as her hands move with graceful dexterity across the keys. The music flows through her, echoing off the walls and ceiling in a flawless performance worthy of any concert pianist. I watch her in awe as she plays, her head bowed.

She is brilliant.

In every way.

And I’m completely spellbound.

She finishes the prelude, and I step back into the hall, flattening myself against the wall in case she looks up, not daring to breathe. However, without missing a beat she goes straight into the fugue. I lean against the wall and close my eyes, marveling at her artistry and the feeling that she puts into each phrase. I’m carried away by the music, and as I listen, I realize that she wasn’t reading the music. She’s playing from memory.

Good God. She’s a fucking virtuoso.

And I remember her intense focus when she examined my score while she was dusting the piano. Clearly she was reading the music.

Shit. She plays at this standard and she was reading my composition?

The fugue ends, and seamlessly she launches into another piece. Again Bach, Prelude in C-sharp Major, I think.

What the fuck is she doing cleaning when she plays like this?

The front doorbell sounds, and suddenly the music ceases.

Shit.

I hear the loud scrape of the piano stool on the floor and, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, I barrel down the hallway in my socks and open the door.

“Good afternoon, sir.” It’s Oliver.

“Come in,” I say, a little breathless.

“I let myself in downstairs. I hope you don’t mind. Are you okay?” Oliver asks as he enters. He stops and stares at Alessia, who is now standing in the hall silhouetted against the light from the drawing-room doorway. As I open my mouth to say something to her, she scoots into the kitchen.

“Yes. I’m fine. Go on through. I just need a word with my daily.”

Oliver frowns in confusion but makes his way to the drawing room.

I take a deep breath and run both my hands through my hair, trying to contain my…wonder.

What the hell?

I stride into the kitchen, where I find a panicked Alessia struggling into her anorak.

“So sorry. So sorry. I am so sorry,” she mumbles, unable to look at me. Her face is pale and strained, as if she’s fighting back tears.

Shit.

“Hey, it’s okay. Here, let me help you with that.” My tone is gentle as I take hold of her coat. It’s every bit as cheap, thin, and nasty as it looks. The name MICHAL JANECZEK is sewn into the collar. Michal Janeczek? Her boyfriend? My scalp prickles as all the little hairs on the back of my neck rise. Maybe this is why she doesn’t want to talk to me. She has a boyfriend.

Fuck. The disappointment is real.

I slip her jacket over her arms and shoulders.

Or maybe she simply doesn’t like me.

Pulling the anorak more tightly around her body, she steps out of my reach while she fumbles with her housecoat and stuffs it into a plastic shopping bag.

“I am sorry, Mister,” she says once more. “I will not do it again. I will not.” And her voice cracks.

“Alessia, for heaven’s sake. It was a pleasure to hear you play. You can play anytime.”

Even if you do have a boyfriend.

She stares at the floor, and I can’t resist. Stepping forward, I reach out and gently tilt her chin so that I can see her face.

“I mean it,” I say. “Anytime. You play so well.” And before I can stop myself, I let my thumb trace her full bottom lip.

Oh, God. So soft.

Touching her is a mistake.

My body responds immediately. Fuck.

She draws in a sharp breath, and her eyes grow impossibly large.

I drop my hand. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, appalled that I’m pawing the girl. Though Caroline’s words come back to me.

She likes you and doesn’t want to give herself away.

“I must go,” Alessia says, and not bothering to remove the scarf from her head, she scoots around me and bolts for the front door. As I hear it close, I notice that she’s left her boots. I reach for them and rush to the front door and open it. But she’s disappeared. Looki

ng at her boots in my hand I turn them over and I’m distressed to see that they’re so old that the soles are worn thin.

Hence the wet footprints.