Mister and Missus By E L James - 60

Alessia freezes as I stride toward her, wanting to vent my spleen. I’m overwhelmed with fury, but as I step up to her, she raises her face to mine, all innocence and beauty and beguiling dark eyes. “I’m sorry. My phone died,” she whispers.

“Oh.” This is not what I thought she’d say. I’m expecting a spirited argument that will help me offload some of my frustration and fear. Her simple apology and admission steal the wind from my sails, and in a nanosecond my temper softens.

“I was worried,” I grumble.

Tentatively, as if she’s about to beard a lion, she reaches up and strokes my cheek. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Sighing, I rest my forehead against hers and close my eyes, taking a moment to calm the fuck down. Slowly, I circle my arms around her, drawing her close so she molds herself against my body, bathing me in her reassuring warmth. She kisses my cheek. “I am sorry. I lost track of the time.”

“Where were you?”

She grins. “If you promise not to be mad, I’ll tell you.”

“No. No, I don’t promise. Not at all. I’m mad already. You have a disturbing tendency to put yourself in perilous situations. Tell me.”

“I met my grandmother’s brother, my great-uncle.”

Maxim steps back, releasing Alessia. “Uncle? You have family here?”

She nods, still radiating from the joy of finding her relative.

“Why would I be upset about that? Does he live in Kew? How did you find him?”

Alessia takes Maxim’s hand and leads him into the kitchen. “Sit,” she says and points to the kitchen chair.

He frowns, confused, but obliges and looks expectantly up at her, his hair tousled and green eyes no longer flashing with anger but bright with curiosity.

“Remember when I asked you about finding Bleriana?”

Maxim stills, and Alessia doesn’t know how he’ll react.

“I went to see the detective.”

“I see. And?”

“I asked him to find my grandmother’s family.”

“Ah.”

“And Bleriana,” she whispers as if she’s confessing a great evil.

“Even though I asked you not to.” Maxim’s mouth flattens, his eyes frost, and she knows he’s irritated. She nods, trying and failing to feel guilty. He shakes his head and, taking her hand, hauls her into his lap. “What the hell, Alessia? I don’t want you involved in that world, even from a distance. Tom’s on it. Admittedly he hasn’t got very far. Call the private investigator and ask him to stop. Let Tom deal with it. Someone I trust. Please.”

“Okay,” she says quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m just anxious to find her.”

Maxim sighs. “I understand. But why didn’t you tell me you were going to meet your great-uncle? I would have come with you.”

“I didn’t plan to meet him. I was going to deliver a letter. We learned about correspondence and letter writing today in class. But I saw the baby grand in his living room through the window, and once I saw that… It was…um…fate.” She shrugs, trying to convey that she felt compelled to knock on the door after seeing the piano.

Maxim sighs again. “I see. Well, if you have any other hidden relatives, I’d be happy to take you to meet them. Let me. Please?”

“Okay.”

“Tell me about him.”

Alessia kisses his cheek. “Thank you for not being too mad at me.”

“I am still a little mad at you. And we say ‘angry.’ ‘Mad’ is American. And I was fucking incandescent earlier. With worry more than anything.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Shall I cook? Are you hungry?”

Maxim sits back, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yes. I’m famished.”

She smiles and caresses his face. Her husband is hangry. “I’ll cook and tell you all about him.”

“So he was just across the river when you lived in Brentford?” I ask as I watch Alessia stir a tomato sauce. “So near, and yet so far.”

“Yes. It is a grand house. He is a musician too, but he was a teacher. At Oxford. A professor in music. He has synesthesia like me, but calls it, um…chrom…chromesthesia.”

“Wow.” What are the odds? “Is it genetic?”

“I think so!” She beams as she stirs in some capers. Whatever she’s concocting, it smells delicious. It smells so good—it deserves a glass of full-bodied red.

“Wine?” I ask Alessia.

“Please. He wants to meet you. And my mother!”

“Has he not met your mother?” I grab a bottle from the rack.

“No. He’s never been to Albania. And my mother doesn’t know he exists. My grandmother was shun…shunned by her family for marrying an Albanian.” Alessia’s voice fades, and she stirs the sauce.

Shit.

My family haven’t shunned her.

Have they? My mother— “That’s awful,” I mutter, immediately shutting that thought down.

“But he knew about me. She would write occasional letters to him.”

“He should go and meet your family. I can recommend it, in spite of your scary father. Have you told Shpresa?” I uncork the wine and, giving it zero time to breathe, pour two glasses.

“No. But I will after dinner.” She drains the spaghetti and adds it to the sauce, stirring it in. “This is ready.”

Alessia places the last of their plates in the dishwasher, wipes down the countertop, and retrieves her phone from her purse. Setting it down, she plugs in the charger. Maxim is in the living room at the piano. She hasn’t heard him play since he duetted with her. She leans against the doorjamb, unseen by him, and listens for a moment. He’s improvising a melody in A minor. The notes sparkle across the room and through her head in a vibrant blue, sounding upbeat and full of warmth and hope, unusual for a minor key.

He sounds… happy.

Alessia smiles. The theme is a complete contrast to his melancholy composition that she played for him not so long ago in the Hideout in Cornwall. He turns, noticing her, and she sidles over and sits beside him at the piano.

“This is a happier tune.”

“I wonder why that is?” Maxim smirks, and she smiles. “It’s from Interstellar. ”

Alessia frowns.

“The film?” he asks.

“I don’t know it.”

“Oh. We’ll have to watch it. Amazing movie. Great soundtrack by Hans Zimmer.” He stops and puts his arm around her. “That reminds me. I spoke to Leticia today.”

Alessia tenses—despite the fact that she likes Ticia, she doesn’t like him talking to women he’s bedded.

Alessia! Stop.

Maxim continues either because he doesn’t notice her tension or chooses not to. “She says we should keep a low profile and avoid the press. So when you’ve finished your course, I think we should go to Cornwall. I have work to do at the Hall anyway. I know we were going to pack the flat up this weekend so we can move. But maybe we can get someone to do that for us. Or we can wait.”

Alessia’s heart skips a beat. “I love Cornwall,” she says breathlessly. “Especially the sea.”

“Me too.” Maxim kisses her hair. “That’s settled then. We can go on Friday evening. And between then and now we can stay at home and watch films. You know, Netflix and chill.”

“I thought that was another way of saying sex on the couch.”

Maxim laughs. “We can do that too.” He kisses her quickly.

“Play some more Interstellar. ”

“I feel a little self-conscious playing for you.”

She laughs. “Why? Don’t, please. I love your compositions.”

“Well, this isn’t mine. But if you listen, you’ll probably be able to play it better than me.”

“Maxim. Play.”

He grins. “Yes. My lady.”

With the music from Maxim’s performance still ringing in her head, Alessia fetches her phone to FaceTime her mother. There are several messages from Maxim; he sounds more frantic and annoyed with each one, and she swallows down her guilt. She didn’t mean to worry him.

There are emails from four of the colleges she sent applications to—the one she reads first is from the Royal College of Music.

She has an audition!

They are keen to see her.

Uau! She runs back into the living room. Maxim looks up. “I have an audition at the Royal College of Music!”

He grins and applauds, rising slowly to his feet. “My talented wife. That’s fantastic news!”

Alessia opens the other emails and finds they all want to see her.

She gapes at Maxim. “All of them want me to audition!”

“Of course they do! They’d be fools not to.” He cups her head in his hands. “You’re beautiful. Talented. And I’m so glad you’re my wife.” He brushes his lips against her. “Go. Tell your mother.”

Alessia beams and heads back into the kitchen to FaceTime Shpresa with the good news.

Maybe I worry too much. Alessia’s fine. She came back in one piece. She’s a functioning adult, for heaven’s sake.

Who has been abducted.

Twice.

Fuck.

I thought… What did I think? She’d left? She’d been abducted again?

Mate. Let it go.

She’s fine. She’s here.

I take a sip of the extremely satisfying Bordeaux, which has had a chance to breathe now, and I briefly wonder if I should raid the cellar at Trevelyan House before Caroline drinks it all.

The doorbell rings. From outside the front door rather than the outside of the building.

Who the hell is that?

Rowena?

A dark shadow looms outside the front door. It’s a man, not a woman. I open the door.

Fuck. It’s him.

All slicked-back hair and expensive camel coat and brogues.

Ana-fucking-toli. Arsehole.

“Hello, Englishman,” Anatoli says, with an arrogance and swagger that makes me want to deck him.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to see you.”

Me! “Why?”

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“No. I’m going to tell you to fuck off.”

“And they say the English are so polite.” He steps in, and contrary to how I feel, I let him.

What the hell?

In the hallway, he stops and turns to address me. “Where’s your wife—the woman who should be my wife? Has she had enough of the upper-class snobbery and left you yet?”

“Do you mean the woman you abused and kidnapped and dragged across Europe?”

Alessia appears in the hallway and pales when she sees the Arsehole.

“I got her out of the country in one piece. She’s back here legally. I did you both a favor,” Anatoli scoffs, eyes like flint.

“Anatoli,” Alessia whispers. “What are you doing here?”

His expression changes, his pale blue eyes warming as he studies her. “I’m here on business,” he answers in her own language. “It’s good to see you, carissima. You look well. Your father says a journalist called at their home. He sent them away. The press don’t approve of you here, like I told you. The English are such snobs. They say your marriage is not legal.”

“But we know that’s not true!” Alessia exclaims.

Anatoli makes a face. “Jak also told me that you’re not with child. You lie well.”

Alessia flushes.

“Is the Englishman taking good care of you?” he murmurs.

“Enough!” Maxim snaps. “You two speak in English, or I will throw him out.” Maxim glares at Alessia as if it’s her fault that Anatoli is standing in his hallway.

Alessia frowns and moves to Maxim’s side. He slides his arm around her and pulls her close.

“Don’t get your panties in a wad, Englishman. It is you I came to see.”

“Me. What the fuck do you want with me? And why would I want to see you?”

“Such language. From an aristocrat too.”

Maxim tenses, and Alessia worries he might explode and hit Anatoli like he did before. She grips his shirt.

“Why are you here?” she pipes up.

“Your father sent me.”

“Baba? Why?”

“I told you. I have a message for the Englishman.”

“And my esteemed father-in-law can’t send a message through his daughter?” Maxim scoffs.

“Jak is not proficient in English. Unlike my good self.” Anatoli’s smug grin is annoying, his mockery unmistakable. “And this is private. For you. Not for his beloved daughter.”

Maxim scowls. “You turn up. Barge into my home. Chat up my wife at some unseemly hour. What is it you want?”

“I need to talk to you. It’s a matter for men. And only men.” Anatoli looks pointedly at Alessia.

“I am not going anywhere,” Alessia exclaims. “If you have something to say to my husband, you can say it to me. I’m not in Kukës anymore.”

“No, carissima. This is for your husband’s ears only.”

Alessia turns her bewildered gaze to me. It’s obvious she has no idea why the Arsehole has appeared on our doorstep. I blow out a breath. “Her name is Alessia. Or Lady Trevethick, to you. Now, say what you have to say, and then you can leave.” I give him a frosty, fuck-off smile, and Anatoli narrows his eyes.

“Is there somewhere private we could go?”

Fuck’s sake.

“Not really. Unless we step outside. This is Alessia’s home too.”

“Maxim, why don’t you go into the living room, and I’ll bring you another glass of wine.”

“There she is!” Anatoli grins. “Alessia, you are an Albanian woman to your soul.” His face lights up. He’s still smitten with my wife.

It’s sickening.

“No. Arsehole, you’re not welcome in this house. You took Alessia from here against her will. You threatened and abused her. And you have the fucking nerve to turn up here and expect us to invite you into our home—”

“I am an associate of Lady Trevethick’s father. And he has a message for you, asshole.”

Alessia is tempted to step between them as they glower at each other.

“Let’s take this outside,” Maxim says through gritted teeth.

Alessia looks up at him, eyes wide and her face etched in panic. He gives her a reassuring smile and turns his attention to Anatoli.

The Arsehole’s icy glare doesn’t intimidate me.

“Are you armed?” Alessia asks him suddenly, the words coming from her mouth in a distraught, breathless rush.

What the fuck?

He shakes his head. “Not this time.” And he smirks. “I came by air. Okay, Englishman, have it your way.”

I don’t even want to think about the implications of Alessia’s question. No wonder it was easy for him to take her—the monster was fucking armed. I scowl at him, trying to keep a rein on my temper. He brought a fucking gun into my home and threatened my wife.

Or me.

That’s how he was able to whisk her away.

Fucking monster.

“Well, Englishman?” he says.

My blood boils, but I grab my jacket and head out, not bothering to wait for him. I don’t take the lift—I bolt down the stairs, buoyed by my anger, and quickly reach the small foyer on the ground floor.

We’ll do this. And then he’s gone.

For good. Hopefully.

He follows me down the stairs, and I know he didn’t expect me to move so fast because he’s breathless when we reach the bottom.

It’s hugely satisfying.

Fucking bastard brought a gun into my home.

“Here,” he shouts when he reaches the foyer before I can leave the building. “There’s light.”

I stop, and he pulls out a newspaper clipping from the inside of his coat and hands it to me. It’s from an Albanian newspaper, so I don’t understand the headlines, but there are grimy photographs of two men.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise in recognition.

Those fuckers!

The traffickers.

I shoot my gaze to him.

“This them?” he asks.

I nod. “Why?”

He says nothing and then produces another newspaper cutting. It’s the photograph of Charlotte kissing me.

Oh shit. “This reached Albania?”

“It did. It made the papers. Jak thinks you should be more discreet with your affairs.”

“Whoa!” I hold up my hand. “This is not what it looks like.”

“No?”

“No. For the record, I’m not having an affair. Also, it’s none of Jak’s or your fucking business.”

“Alessia has seen this?”

“Of course she’s seen it. She was there.”

“Oh.” He looks crestfallen—so much so that I feel a nanoparticle of pity for him. He still holds a torch that shines brightly for my wife. He loves her. In his own way.

What an idiot.

“You know,” he growls. “You fuck this up between you and her—I’m here. Waiting. It’s obvious your gutter press, they don’t approve. The snobbery and disdain is in every word they write about her. I’ll be in her home country where we love her. I love her.”

“No, you don’t. And keep away from my wife. If you hadn’t mistreated her, she might be with you now. But you did. You fucked up. And she’s mine now. In every way. And I don’t give a flying fuck about the press. Leave Alessia alone. Now, you can see yourself out.”

Without looking back at him, I vault up the stairs, and when I reach the top floor, I’ve expended enough energy to calm down.

Alessia is still in the hallway. “Where is he? What did he want?” she asks.

“Nothing important.”

She puts her hands on her hips. “Maxim. Tell me.”

And suddenly, I want to laugh. She runs off to meet her uncle without saying a word. And here she is, demanding answers. “You really want to know?”

“Yes. And why are you smiling?”

“Because you’re making me smile.”

“Tell me!”

“Your father wants me to handle my mistresses more discreetly.”

Alessia pales, gaping at me as if I’d just slapped her.

Shit. I was joking!

“Hey. It’s nonsense. Anatoli had a clipping from an Albanian newspaper with Charlotte.” And I’m suddenly inspired. Reaching out, I take Alessia’s hand. “Let me show you something.”

I guide her into the drawing room, sit at my desk, and seat Alessia on my lap. Grasping my iMac’s mouse, I wake the computer. On Instagram, I find Grisha Egonov’s reel of Alessia at the piano. “Watch,” I say, and switching on the sound, I listen to my wife’s exquisite performance of Bach. She squirms on my lap, unused to watching herself. “It’s good, don’t worry,” I murmur.

Alessia watches the recording, noting her finger work and the sound from the piano. It’s good. The tone is mellow yet bright. As she finishes the piece, there’s a burst of applause from the audience. Maxim pauses the video. “See?” he says, and with the cursor, he circles some blurred figures in the background, then presses Play. Alessia’s scalp tightens. There’s Maxim, leaning back from Charlotte as she kisses him. He twists his head, grabs her hands, and eases her gently away from him.

He stopped her.

Alessia slides her gaze to him. “She kissed you.”

“I told you . She kissed me. ”

“I believed you.”

“Did you, though?” he says, with a sideways look, his lips curved into a teasing smile.

Alessia laughs and throws her arms around his neck. “Yes. A thousand times, yes. Of course I believed you.”

“So you should. Shall we Netflix and chill?” He kisses her, his hands in her hair, his tongue invading her mouth, stealing away her breath and making her heart sing.