Mister and Missus By E L James - 7

Alessia cannot contain her excitement. She clutches the umbrella and enters his apartment. Today she’s pleased to note that the alarm doesn’t sound.

He’s here!

Last night in her narrow bed, she’d dreamed of him again—malachite-green eyes, shining smile, and that expressive face—engrossed in his music as he played the piano. She’d woken breathless and full of desire. And the last time she’d seen him, he’d been kind enough to lend her his umbrella, and it had kept her dry on the way home and all day yesterday. She’d not received much kindness since she came to London, except from Magda, of course, so his gesture meant that much more. Pulling off her boots and leaving the umbrella in the hall, she hurries through to the kitchen. She is excited to see him.

She stops on the threshold.

Oh, no!

A blond woman wearing nothing but a man’s shirt, his shirt, is standing in the kitchen making coffee. She looks up and gives Alessia a polite but warm smile. Alessia recovers her capacity to move and walks through the kitchen toward the laundry room with her head bowed, in shock.

“Good morning,” the woman says. She looks as though she’s just climbed out of bed.

His bed?

“Good morning, missus,” Alessia mumbles as she walks past her. Once in the laundry room, she stands for a moment to process this crushing turn of events.

Who is this woman with big blue eyes?

Why is she wearing his shirt? A shirt Alessia had ironed for him only last week.

This woman is with him. She must be. Why else is she wandering around wearing his shirt? She must know him intimately.

Intimately.

Of course he has someone. Someone beautiful.

Like him.

Alessia’s dreams lie in shards at her feet. Her face clouds as disappointment constricts her heart. Sighing, she removes her hat, gloves, and anorak and slips on her housecoat.

What did she expect? He will never be interested in her—she is just his cleaner. Why would he want her?

The small bubble of joy she’d felt this morning—the first in a long time—has burst. She puts on her sneakers and sets up the ironing board. Her earlier excitement is a distant memory as she’s forced to face reality. From the dryer she fishes out his clean laundry, transferring it into the ironing basket. This is her place. This is what she was raised to do: keep house and look after a man.

She can still admire him from afar as she’s done since she saw him naked on his bed. There is nothing to stop her from doing that.

Feeling discouraged, she exhales as she fills the iron with more water.

A lessia stands in the doorway. A vision in blue.

Slowly she removes her scarf and lets her plait swing free.

Shake your hair out for me.

She smiles.

Come in. Lie with me. I want you.

But she turns, and she’s in my drawing room. Polishing the piano. Studying my score.

She’s wearing nothing but pink panties.

I reach over to touch her, but she disappears.

She’s standing in the hall. Eyes wide. Clutching a broom.

Naked.

She has long legs. I want them wrapped around my waist.

“I made you some coffee,” Caroline whispers.

I groan, reluctant to wake. A large part of my anatomy is also enjoying my dream. Fortunately, I’m on my front, so my erection is pressing against the mattress, hidden from my sister-in-law.

“You have no food. Shall we go out for breakfast, or shall I have Blake bring us something?”

I groan again, which is my way of saying fuck off and leave me alone. But Caroline is persistent.

“I met your new daily. She’s very young. What happened to Krystyna?”

Shit! Alessia is here?

I roll over to find Caroline sitting on the side of the bed. “Do you want me to get back in?” she asks with a coy smile, her head nodding toward the pillow.

“No,” I answer, gazing at her lovely but disheveled state. “You made coffee dressed like that?”

“Yes.” She frowns. “Why? Does my body offend you? Or are you pissed off I’m wearing one of your shirts?”

I have the grace to laugh, and I reach out and squeeze her hand. “Your body would never offend anyone, Caro. You know that.”

But Alessia will get the wrong idea…

Fuck. Why do I care?

Caroline twists her mouth in an ironic smile.

“But you don’t want it,” she says, her voice suddenly quiet. “Is this because you’ve met someone?”

“Caro. Please. Let’s not go over that again. We can’t. Besides, you said you were on.”

“Surfing the crimson tide has never been an issue for you,” she scoffs.

“Good God, when did I tell you that?” I put my hands on my head and stare in horror up at the ceiling.

“Years ago.”

“Well, I apologize for oversharing.”

Women! They fucking remember everything.

“And why the hell did you have to remind me?” Her face loses all semblance of humor as her sorrow resurfaces. She stares unseeing out the windows, and her voice is soft and raw and anguished. “We tried for two years for a child. Two whole years. It’s what we both wanted.” Her tears begin to slip down her cheeks. “And now he’s gone, and I’ve lost everything. I have nothing.” She puts her head in her hands and begins to weep.

Fuck. I’m an idiot. Sitting up, I pull her into my arms and let her cry. I grab a tissue from the box on the bedside table.

“Here.” I hand it to her. She clutches it as if it holds the meaning of life, and I continue, my voice low, tender, and sad, “We can’t keep doing this while we’re both grieving. It’s not fair on either of us, or to Kit. And you haven’t lost everything. You have your own money. And you still have the house. We’ll sort out a stipend for you from the estate if you need it. In fact, Rowena thinks you should do the interior design for the Mayfair apartments.” I kiss her hair. “You’ll always have me, but not as a diversion, Caro—as a friend and brother-in-law.”

Caroline sniffs and wipes her nose. She leans back and gazes at me with heartbreaking, watery blue eyes.

“It’s because I chose him, isn’t it?”

My heart sinks. “Let’s not go through that again.”

“Is it because you’ve found someone else? Who is she?”

I do not want to have this conversation. “Let’s go out for breakfast.”

I shower and dress in record time, and I’m relieved to find that Caroline is still in the spare room en suite when I take my empty coffee cup into the kitchen. My heartbeat rockets at the thought of seeing Alessia.

Why am I nervous? Or am I excited?

Much to my disappointment, she isn’t in the kitchen, so I venture to the scullery, where she’s ironing one of my shirts. Unobserved, I watch her. She irons with the same sensuous grace I noticed the other day, in long, easy strokes, her brow furrowed in concentration. She finishes the shirt and suddenly looks up. Her eyes widen when she sees me, her cheeks flushing with a rosy glow.

Man, she is lovely.

“Good morning,” I say. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She places the iron on the rest and stares at it, rather than at me, her brow more furrowed than before.

What? Why won’t she look at me?

“I’m just taking my sister-in-law out for breakfast.” Why am I telling her this?

But her eyelashes flutter as she blinks, and I know she’s processing this information. In a rush I continue, “If you could change the sheets in the spare room, that would be great.”

She stills, then nods, avoiding my gaze, while her teeth worry her upper lip.

Oh… I want to feel those teeth on me.

“I’ll leave the money as usual—”

Her face tilts up, and she gives me a dark glance with her expressive beautiful eyes, and my words dry in my throat.

“Thank you, Mister,” she whispers.

“My name’s Maxim.” I want to hear her say my name in her seductive accent, but she stands mute in her awful housecoat and gives me a tight smile.

“Maxim!” Caroline calls, then walks into the now-cramped scullery. “Hello again,” she says to Alessia.

“Alessia, this is my friend and sister-in-law… um… Caroline. Caroline, Alessia.”

This is awkward. I’m surprised how self-conscious I feel making the introductions.

Caroline gives me a puzzled look, which I ignore, but she directs a kind smile at Alessia.

“Alessia, lovely name. Is it Polish?” Caroline asks.

“No, missus. It is from Italy.”

“Oh, you’re Italian.”

“No, I am from Albania.” She takes a step back and begins to fiddle with a stray thread on her housecoat.

Albania?

She doesn’t want to talk about this, but I’m so curious that I press on. “You’re a long way from home. Are you studying here?”

She shakes her head and starts to pull at the thread, more evasive than ever. It’s clear she isn’t going to elaborate.

“Maxim. Let’s go,” Caroline says, tugging at my arm while maintaining her quizzical look. “Lovely to meet you, Alessia,” she adds.

I hesitate. “Bye,” I say, reluctant to leave her.

“Bye,” Alessia whispers, and she watches him follow Caroline out of the kitchen.

Sister-in-law?

She hears the front door close.

Sister-in-law.

Kunata.

As she returns to the ironing, she says the words out loud in English and Albanian, and the sound and meaning make her smile. But it’s odd that his sister-in-law should be here, wearing his clothes. Alessia shrugs. She’s seen enough American TV shows to know that relationships between men and women are different in the West.

Later she strips the bed in the spare room. It’s modern and chic and white like the rest of the apartment, but the most pleasing aspect of it is that it’s been used. With a relieved grin, she collects more white bedding from the linen closet and remakes the bed.

Since meeting Caroline, one thought has plagued Alessia. In the Mister’s bedroom, she has the chance to satisfy her curiosity. She wraps her arms around herself and approaches the wastebasket with caution. Taking a deep breath, she peeks in.

She grins.

No condoms.

Alessia goes about cleaning and tidying his bedroom with a little of the joy she’d felt earlier that morning.

“Is it her?” Caroline asks.

“What?” I scoff as we sit in a cab on the way to the King’s Road.

“Your daily.”

Shit.

“What about my daily?”

“Is it her?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Caroline crosses her arms. “That’s not a no.”

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.” I stare out at the drab Chelsea streets through the cab’s steamed-up window as I feel a flush creep up my neck, betraying me.

How did I give myself away?

“I’ve never seen you so solicitous with your staff.”

I scowl at her. “Speaking of staff,” I say, “was it Mrs. Blake who organized Krystyna for me?”

“I think it was. Why?”

“Well, I was a little surprised that she upped and left without so much as a good-bye and Miss Albania took her place. No one told me.”

“Maxim, if you don’t like the girl, get rid of her.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Well, you’re acting pretty bloody weird about her.”

“No I’m not.”

“Whatever, Maxim.” Caroline’s mouth presses into a hard line as she folds her arms and stares out the misting cab window, leaving me to my own thoughts.

What I really want is information about Alessia Demachi. I process what I know. Fact one, she’s Albanian, not Polish. I know very little about Albania. What brings her to the UK? How old is she? Where does she live? Does she travel far each morning? Does she live alone?

I could follow her home.

Stalker!

I could ask her.

Fact two, Alessia is reluctant to talk. Or is she reluctant to talk to me ? The thought is depressing, and I stare at the rain-lashed streets, sulking like a needy adolescent.

Why does this woman confound me?

Is it that she’s so mysterious?

That she’s from a completely different background to me?

The fact that she works for me?

That makes her off-limits.

Fuck.

The truth is, I want to bed her. There. I admit it to myself. That’s what I want, and I have a severe case of blue balls to prove it. What’s more, I don’t know how to make that happen, especially as she won’t talk to me. She won’t even look at me.

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. Looking 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.

She must be penniless if this is what she’s wearing. Scowling, I take them back to the kitchen and glance through the glass door that leads out onto the fire escape. The weather is fine today, so even in her trainers her feet won’t get wet.

What on earth possessed me to touch her? That was a mistake. I rub my thumb and forefinger together, recalling the softness of her lip. Groaning, I shake my head. I’m shocked and embarrassed that I’ve overstepped the mark with her. Taking a deep breath, I go to join Oliver in the drawing room.

“Who was that?” Oliver asks.

“My daily.”

“I don’t have her on the roster of employees.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Yes. How do you pay her? With cash?”

What the fuck is he implying?

“Yes. Cash,” I snap.

Oliver shakes his head. “You’re the Earl of Trevethick now. She’ll need to go on the payroll.”

“Why?”

“Because Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs will take a dim view of you paying cash to anyone. Trust me, they’re all over our accounts.”

“I don’t understand.”

“All employees have to go through the books. Did you organize her?”

“No. Mrs. Blake did.”

“I’m sure it won’t be a problem. I just need her details. She’s from the UK, yes?”

“Well, no. She says she’s Albanian.”

“Oh. Then she may need a work permit to be here—unless she’s studying, of course.”

Oh, shit.

“I’ll get the details for you. Shall we discuss the rest of the staff?” I ask.

“By all means. Shall we start with those who work at Trevelyan House?”

Alessia runs to the bus stop, unsure why she’s running or from whom. How could she have been stupid enough to get caught? He said he didn’t mind her playing the piano, but she doesn’t know whether to believe him. He may be calling Magda’s friend right now to have her fired! Her heart pounding, feeling confused, she sits on the bench to wait for the bus that will take her to Queenstown Road station. She isn’t sure if her increased heart rate is from her mad dash along Chelsea Embankment or from what happened in the Mister’s apartment.

She caresses her lower lip with her fingertips. Closing her eyes, she recalls the delicious jolt that went through her when he touched her. Her heart somersaults once more, making her gasp.

He touched her.

Like he does in her dreams.

Like he does in her imagination.

So gentle.

And tender.

Isn’t that what she wants?

Perhaps he likes her…

She gasps once more.

No. She cannot think like this.

It’s impossible.

How could he like her? She’s just his cleaner.

But he helped her into her coat. No one has ever done that before. She stares down at her feet.

Zot!

She realizes that she’s left her boots in the apartment. Should she go back and retrieve them? She has no shoes except the pair she’s wearing and her boots, one of the few possessions she retains from home.

She can’t go back. He’s meeting with someone. If she angered him by playing the piano, he is sure to be angrier still if she interrupts him. She sees the bus in the distance and resolves to collect her boots on Friday—if she still has a job.

Her teeth toy with her upper lip. She needs this job. If she gets fired, Magda might turn her out on the street.

No, that will not happen.

Magda wouldn’t be that cruel, and Alessia still has Mrs. Kingsbury’s and Mrs. Goode’s houses to clean, though neither of them has a piano. However, it’s not just the piano that Alessia needs—she needs the money. Magda and her son, Michal, are emigrating to Canada soon. They will join Magda’s fiancé, Logan, who lives and works in Toronto. Alessia will have to find somewhere to live. Magda charges her a pittance of a hundred pounds a week for the tiny bedroom, and from her research on Michal’s computer she knows this is a bargain. Finding other lodgings in London for so little is going to be a challenge.

Her heart warms when she thinks about Michal. He is generous with his time and his computer. Alessia’s knowledge of the cyber world is limited, as her father was strict with the use of the old computer at home. But Michal is not. He is all over social media. Facebook, Instagram, Tumblr, Snapchat—Michal loves them all. She smiles thinking of the selfie he took yesterday of the two of them. He likes to take the selfies.

The bus arrives, and still feeling giddy from the Mister’s touch, she climbs aboard.

“Well, that’s a run-through of all the staff. I need your daily’s details so I can add her to the payroll,” Oliver says. We’re seated at the small dining table in my drawing room, and I had hoped we’d concluded our meeting.

“Now I have a proposition for you,” he continues.

“What?”

“I think it’s best if you take a thorough tour and inspect both the estates that are in your direct control. Tyok we can do when the tenant vacates.”

“Oliver, I’ve lived on these estates at various points in my life. Why do I need to inspect them?”

“Because you’re the boss now, Maxim. It will show the staff you care and that you’re committed to them and to the estates’ longevity.”

What? My mother would have my head on a plate if I felt anything less. For her it’s always been about the earldom, the bloodline, and the family—which is ironic, considering she abandoned them . But not before she’d imparted to Kit her passion for our family’s history and legacy. She’d schooled him well. He knew his duties. And like the good man he was, he rose to the challenge.

As did Maryanne. She knew our history, too.

Me. Not so much.

Maryanne had learned by osmosis; she was a curious child.

I was always too distracted and lost in my own world.

“Of course I’m committed to the staff and the estates,” I growl.

“They don’t know that, sir,” Oliver says calmly. “And… well, your behavior there the last time…” His voice trails off. I know he’s referring to the night before Kit’s funeral, when I’d drunk my way through a portion of Kit’s cellar at Tresyllian Hall. I was angry. I knew what his death signified for me. And I didn’t want the responsibility.

And I was in shock.

I missed him.

I still miss him.

“I was in fucking mourning,” I mutter, feeling defensive. “I still am. I didn’t ask for all this.”

I’m not ready for this huge obligation.

Why didn’t my parents foresee this?

My mother never made me feel as though I was going to be good at anything. She concentrated on my brother. She had tolerated her two younger children. Loved us, even, in her own way.

But she adored Kit.

Everyone adored Kit. My blond, blue-eyed, smart, confident, overindulged elder brother.

The heir.

Oliver holds up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I know. I know. But you have some bridges to mend.”

“Well, maybe we should schedule a trip in the next few weeks.”

“I think sooner rather than later.”

I don’t want to leave London. I’ve made a little headway with Alessia, and the thought of not seeing her for a few days is… displeasing.

“When, then?” I snap.

“No time like the present.”

“You’re kidding.”

Oliver shakes his head.

Fuck.

“Let me think about it,” I mutter, and I know I’m pouting like a spoiled child.

I am the definition of a spoiled child .

Gone are the days when I could do what the hell I wanted.

And I shouldn’t take my anger out on Oliver.

“Very good, sir. I’ve cleared my diary for the next few days to come with you.”

Oh, great.

“Fine,” I grumble.

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Sure. Why not. We’ll make it a royal progress.” I grit my teeth.

“Maxim, I know there’s a great deal to take on board, but having all your staff well motivated will make a significant difference. They only know a certain side of you.” He pauses, and I understand that he’s referring to my less-than-spotless reputation. “Just talking to the estate managers on their home turf will mean so much to them. Your meeting with them last week was too brief.”

“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point. I’ve agreed, haven’t I?” I know I’m being petulant, but deep down I don’t want to leave.

Well, I don’t want to leave Alessia.

My daily.