The Mister

This young woman who has been through so much is now here beside me, where I can protect her. I stretch out, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest: her lips parted as she breathes, her dark lashes fanned out over her cheeks. Her skin is fair, her lips rosy. She’s gorgeous, and I know that I will never tire of looking at her. I’m enthralled and spellbound by her. She’s magical, in every way.

I’ve had sex too many times to count, but I’ve never felt this connected. It’s a foreign and unsettling feeling, as is my yearning for more.

I brush a stray lock of hair off her forehead simply as an excuse to touch her. Alessia stirs and mumbles something in Albanian, and I freeze, afraid that I’ve woken her. But she settles once more into a peaceful sleep and I remember that she’ll fear the dark should she wake. Careful not to disturb her, I climb out of bed and hurry downstairs to retrieve the night-light I purchased earlier. I fit the batteries, switch it on, and place it on the bedside table next to Alessia. Should she wake, she won’t be in darkness.

Slipping back under the covers, I lie down and study her. She’s lovely—the curve of her cheek, of her chin, the way that tiny gold cross nestles in the hollow at the base of her throat—she’s exquisite. She looks young but serene as she sleeps. Taking a strand of her hair, I wind it around my finger. I hope to God she’s feeling safer now. And that her dreams aren’t the nightmares she endured yesterday. She sighs, and her lips curl in a smile. Her expression is encouraging. I gaze at her until I can no longer keep my eyes open. And before I drift off to sleep, I murmur her name.

Alessia.

Chapter Sixteen

I sense her before I’m fully awake. The warmth of her body seeps into mine. Enjoying the feel of her skin on my skin, I open my eyes to greet the misty morning and the lovely Alessia. She’s fast asleep and curled around me like a fern, her hand on my belly, her head on my chest. My arm is wrapped possessively around her shoulders, holding her close, and she’s naked. I grin as my body rouses.

What a difference a day makes.

I lie for a moment cherishing her heat and the fragrance of her hair. She shifts and mumbles something unintelligible, and her eyelids flutter open.

“Good morning, beautiful,” I whisper. “This is your early-morning wake-up call.” And I ease her onto her back. She blinks a couple of times as I kiss the tip of her nose and nuzzle the pulse point beneath her ear, and she beams and throws her arms around my neck as my hand travels down to her breast.

* * *

The sun is shining. The air is crisp and cold. “No Diggity” blares over the sound system as I drive up the A39 toward Padstow. I’ve ruled out going to Sunday service. There’ll be too many people at the local parish church who know me. Once I’ve told Alessia who I am and what I do…then maybe. I glance at her as her heels bounce in time to the music. She flashes me a quick crotch-tightening grin.

Man, she is captivating.

Her smile lights up the Jag’s interior—and me.

I give her a wicked smile in return, remembering this morning. And last night. She tucks her wild hair behind her ear, and an innocent blush steals across her cheeks. Perhaps she’s thinking about this morning, too. I hope so. I see her, a vision in my bed, head tipped back in ecstasy, her mouth open as she cries out and comes, her hair spilling over the edge of the bed. My blood heads south at the thought. Yeah. She seemed to enjoy it. She seemed to enjoy it very much. Shifting in my seat at the memory, I reach across to squeeze her knee.

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods, her deep brown eyes sparkling.

“Me, too.” I take her hand, bring it to my lips, and give her a grateful kiss on her palm.

I feel buoyant—more than buoyant, I’m elated. I’m happier than I’ve been…since…since Kit died. No. Since before Kit’s death. And I know it’s because I’m with Alessia.

I’m intoxicated with her.

But I don’t dwell on my feelings. I don’t want to. They are new and raw and a little unsettling. I’ve never felt like this. Truth is, I’m excited. I’m going shopping with a woman, and I’m looking forward to it—is this a first?

But I suspect it will be a battle with Alessia. She’s proud. Maybe it’s an Albanian characteristic. At breakfast she was adamant that I couldn’t buy her any new clothes. But she’s sitting beside me in her only pair of jeans, the thin, graying white top, her leaky boots, and my sister’s old jacket. This is a fight she’s not going to win.

I park in the spacious car park by the quay. She’s curious, peering through the windscreen at our surroundings.

“Want to look around?” I ask, and we climb out of the car.

It’s a picture-postcard scene: antiquated houses and cottages built of gray Cornish stone line the small harbor where a few fishing boats are moored up, idle, because it’s a Sunday.

“This is a good view,” Alessia says. She’s huddled in her coat, and I stretch my arm around her shoulders and hold her to me.

“Let’s go and get you some warm clothes,” I offer with a smile, but she immediately steps out of my embrace.

“Maxim, I cannot pay for new clothes.”

“It’s my treat.”

“Treat?” She frowns.

“Alessia, you have nothing. This is very easy for me to put right. Please. Let me. I want to.”

“It is not right.”

“Says who?”

She taps her finger to her lips, and it appears that this is not an argument she’s considered. “Me. I say,” she answers eventually.

I sigh. “They are a gift for all your hard work—”

“They are a gift because I have sexual intercourse with you.”

“What? No!” I laugh, appalled and amused in equal measure. I quickly scan the quay to check no one can hear us. “I offered to buy you clothes before the sex, Alessia. Come on. Look at you. You’re freezing. And I know your boots leak. I’ve seen your wet footprints in my hallway.”

She opens her mouth to speak.

I hold up my hand to stop her. “Please,” I insist. “It would give me great pleasure.”

She purses her lips, unimpressed. I try a different tack. “I’m going to buy them for you anyway, whether you’re there or not. So you can come with me and choose something you like or leave it to me.”

She folds her arms.

Fuck. Alessia Demachi has a stubborn streak.

“Please. For me,” I beseech her, holding out my hand. She glares at me, and I give her my very best smile. Then she sighs—resigned, I think—and puts her hand in mine.

Yes.

* * *

Mister Maxim is right. She needs clothes. Why is she being so obstinate about his generous offer? It’s because he’s done so much for her already. She trots beside him along the quay, trying to ignore the scandalized voice of her mother that rings in her head.

He is not your husband. He is not your husband.

She shakes her head.

Enough!

She’s not going to let her absent mother make her feel guilty. She is in England now. She is free. Like an English girl. Like her grandmother. And Mister Maxim said that she is on holiday, and if it gives him pleasure…After the pleasure he’s given her, how can she refuse? She blushes recalling his…what did he call it?

Early-morning wake-up call.

Alessia fights back her smile. He could wake her up like that any day.

And he cooked her breakfast again.

He is spoiling her.

She hasn’t been spoiled in a very long time.

Ever?

She glances up at him as they walk into the center of Padstow, and her heart lurches. He looks down at her, his eyes lively, and his handsome face erupts into a wide grin. He looks roguish this morning. It must be the stubble on his face. She likes the feel of it beneath her tongue. She loves the feel of it against her skin.

Alessia!

She had no idea she could be so wanton. Mister Maxim has woken a monster. She laughs to herself.

Who knew?

Her thoughts take a somber turn. What is she going to do when they go back to London and the holiday comes to an end? She wraps one hand around his biceps and squeezes his hand with the other. She doesn’t want to think about that. Not now. Not today.

This is a holiday.

As they walk, the words became her mantra.

This is a holiday.

Ky është pushim.

Padstow is bigger than Trevethick, but the old, cramped houses and narrow lanes are the same. It’s a picturesque little town. The place is bustling with people, tourists and locals out enjoying the sunshine in spite of the cold. There are children eating ice cream. Young people holding hands, like Maxim and her. And older people happily arm in arm. Alessia is amazed that people can express their affection so freely on the streets. It is not the same in Kukës.

* * *

I turn into the first shop that sells women’s clothing. It’s a local chain store, and I stand in the middle of the shop staring at all that’s on offer. Everything looks pleasant enough, but frankly I’m a little overwhelmed. Alessia is hanging on my arm like a limpet. And I have no idea where to start. I’d had the vague idea that I’d have her cooperation, her enthusiasm, even—but she doesn’t seem interested in the merchandise.