Mister and Missus By E L James - 9

“Who was that?” Michal asks, his voice clipped and frosty, as he glares at the vehicle outside. He’s only fourteen, but he towers over Alessia, all shaggy black hair and skinny loose limbs.

“My boss,” she answers as she peeks through the front door to watch the car drive away. She shuts the door behind her and, unable to contain her glee, gives Michal a quick, spontaneous hug.

“All right.” Michal shrugs out of her embrace, his face flushed but his brown eyes bright with embarrassed delight. Alessia beams at him, and his answering shy smile hints at his adolescent crush on her. She steps back, careful not to be overly affectionate. She doesn’t want to hurt his feelings. After all, he and his mother have been good to her.

“Where’s Magda?” she asks.

“In the kitchen.” His face falls, and so does his voice. “Something’s not right. She’s smoking a lot.”

“Oh, no.” Alessia’s pulse quickens with a sense of foreboding. Taking off her coat, she hangs it on one of the pegs in the small hallway and goes into the kitchen. Magda is holding a cigarette, sitting at the tiny Formica table. The smoke curls above her in a hazy cloud. Though small, the kitchen is neat and tidy as usual, and the radio is burbling in Polish in the background. Magda looks up, relieved to see her.

“You got home through the snow. I was worried. Good day?” Magda asks, but Alessia notices her strained smile and the tension in her lips as she takes a long drag from her cigarette.

“Yes. Are you okay? Is your fiancé okay?”

Magda is a few years younger than Alessia’s mother, though usually she looks at least ten years younger. Blond and curvy, with hazel eyes that sparkle with her wicked sense of humor, she rescued Alessia from the streets. Today, though, she looks tired, her skin pallid and her lips pinched. The kitchen stinks of cigarette smoke, which Magda normally hates—even as a smoker herself.

She blows smoke into the room. “Yes. He’s fine. It’s nothing to do with him. Shut the door and sit down,” she says. A tremor runs up Alessia’s spine. Perhaps Magda is going to ask her to leave. She shuts the kitchen door, pulls out the plastic chair, and sits.

“Some men from the immigration department were here today looking for you.”

Oh, no.

Alessia pales, and she hears the blood hammering in her ears.

“It was after you left for work,” Magda adds.

“Wh-wh-what… what did you tell them?” she stutters as she tries to still the trembling in her hands.

“I didn’t speak with them. Mr. Forrester from next door did. They knocked on his door because we were not here. He did not like the look of them and told them he had never heard of you. He said that Michal and I were away in Poland.”

“Did they believe him?”

“Yes. Mr. Forrester thinks so. They left.”

“How did they find me?”

“I don’t know.” Magda makes a face. “Who knows how these things work?” She takes another drag from her cigarette. “I have to write to your mother.”

“No!” Alessia grasps Magda’s hand. “Please.”

“I’ve already written and told her that you arrived safely. That was a lie.”

Alessia flushes. Magda does not know the full story of her journey to Brentford. “Please,” she says. “I don’t want to worry her.”

“Alessia, if they catch you, you’ll be deported to Albania—” Magda stops.

“I know,” Alessia whispers, and a trickle of sweat runs down her spine as fear tightens her throat. “I cannot go back,” she mouths.

“You realize that Michal and I are leaving in two weeks. You have to find somewhere else to stay.”

“I know. I know. I’ll find something.” Anxiety flutters in Alessia’s stomach. Every night she lies in bed going through her options. So far she has saved three hundred pounds from her cleaning work. She will need the money for a deposit on a room. With Michal’s help and the use of his laptop, she will try to find a place to live.

“I’ll get supper started,” Magda says with a sigh as she stubs out her cigarette. The smoke swirls out of the ashtray, blending with the tension in the room.

“Let me help,” Alessia responds.

Later Alessia is huddled on her cot, staring at the ceiling. With her fingers she worries the gold cross she wears around her neck. The light from the streetlamp shines through the sheer curtains across the old, peeling wallpaper. Her mind races as she tries not to panic. Earlier, after an hour searching online, she’d found a room in a house that is near Kew Bridge station. Magda says that it’s not far from here. Alessia has an appointment to see it on Friday evening when she’s back from cleaning the Mister’s apartment. She can barely afford it, but she needs to move, especially if the immigration department is catching up with her. She cannot be deported. She cannot go back to Albania.

She cannot.

She turns over to escape the shaft of light and snuggles up in the thin duvet to preserve as much warmth as she can. Thoughts swirl in her head, overwhelming her. She wants them to stop.

Don’t think about Albania.

Don’t think about this journey.

Don’t think about the other girls … about Bleriana.

She closes her eyes, and immediately she sees the Mister asleep on the sofa, his hair a mess, his lips parted. She remembers lying on him. She remembers his swift kiss. She imagines that she’s lying on him again, inhaling his scent and kissing his skin and feeling the steady beat of his heart against her breast.

I missed you.

She groans.

Every night he occupies her thoughts. He is handsome. More than handsome—he is beautiful and kind.

I love hearing you play.

He drove her home. He didn’t have to do that.

You could stay here.

Stay with him?

Perhaps she could ask him for help.

No. Her situation is her problem. It’s not of her making, but it’s one she must deal with. She has made it this far on nothing but her ingenuity. And there’s no way in hell she’s going back to Kukës. Not to him.

He’s shaking me hard. Stop this. Stop this now.

No. Don’t think of him!

He’s the reason she’s in England. She has put as many miles as she can between them.

Think of the Mister. Only the Mister.

Her hand travels down her body.

Think only of him…

What had he called her? What is it called?

Synesthesia… She repeats the name over and over and over while her hand moves and takes her higher and higher.

The following morning she wakes to a white wonderland. It’s so quiet. Even the distant hum of traffic is muffled by the blanket of sparkling snow. As she looks out her bedroom window, still huddled under her covers, she feels the same rush of delight she always experienced as a child when it snowed in Kukës. Then she remembers that today she is cleaning Mrs. Kingsbury’s house. On the plus side, it’s in Brentford and only a short walk away. On the minus, it’s Mrs. Kingsbury, who follows her through the house criticizing her cleaning methods. But Alessia suspects that Mrs. Kingsbury grouses because she’s a lonely old lady, and in spite of her complaining she always offers Alessia tea and biscuits when she’s finished. They sit and chat, and Mrs. Kingsbury tries to keep her there for as long as possible. Alessia doesn’t understand why Mrs. Kingsbury lives on her own. She’s seen photographs of her family on her mantelpiece. Why aren’t they taking care of her? After all, Nana lived with her parents after her grandfather died… Perhaps Mrs. Kingsbury needs a lodger? Someone to look after her. She certainly has the room, and after all, Alessia is lonely, too.

Dressed only in Michal’s tatty SpongeBob SquarePants pj bottoms and his old Arsenal football shirt, she gathers her clothes for the day and bolts down the stairs and through the kitchen into the bathroom.

Magda has been generous with Michal’s old clothing. She often complains he’s growing too fast, but it’s been to Alessia’s advantage. Most of the clothes she owns were once his. Except socks. Michal wears huge holes in them, so he can’t hand them down. She has two pairs of her own, but that’s all.

Don’t you wear socks?

Alessia flushes, remembering the Mister’s comment from yesterday. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him she can’t afford new ones. Not while she’s saving for a deposit on a room.

She switches on the electric shower that is mounted over the bath and waits a few moments for the water to heat up. She strips off her clothes, climbs into the bathtub, and washes as quickly as possible beneath the trickle of water.

My hands are braced on the shower wall. I’m panting while steaming hot water cascades over me. I’ve been reduced to jerking off in the shower… again.

Fuck. What has become of my life?

Why don’t I just go out and get laid?

Her eyes, the color of a rich espresso, peek up at me through long lashes.

I groan.

This has to stop.

She’s my fucking daily. Last night I tossed and turned alone in my bed again. Her laugh echoed over and over in my dreams. She was carefree and happy, playing the piano for me, wearing nothing but those pink panties, her hair falling long and lush past her breasts.

Ah…

Even my grueling workout this morning had done little to get her out of my system.

There is only one way.

That’s not going to happen.

But the smile she gave me when she stepped out of the car, it gives me hope, and I’ll see her tomorrow. With that positive thought, I turn off the shower and grab a towel. As I shave, I check my phone. Oliver has messaged me. He’s stuck in Cornwall because of the weather, which means I can spend the morning replying to condolence e-mails and then have lunch with Caroline and Maryanne. And this evening I’m going out with the lads.

“Finally got you out of your lair. Should I address you as ‘Lord Trevethick’ or ‘milord’ now, bro?” Joe says as he holds up his pint of Fuller’s in salute.

“Yes. I don’t know whether to address you as ‘Trevethick’ or ‘Trevelyan’ now,” Tom grumbles.

“I’ll answer to either,” I reply with a shrug. “Or my name—you know, Maxim.”

“I should call you Trevethick from now on… though it will be hard to get used to. It is your title, after all, and I know my father is bloody touchy about his!”

“Thank fuck I’m not your father.” I raise a brow.

Tom rolls his eyes.

“Won’t be the same without Kit around,” Joe mutters, his ebony eyes glinting in the firelight and serious for once.

“Yes, rest in peace, Kit,” Tom adds.

Joseph Diallo and Thomas Alexander are my oldest and closest friends. After I’d been expelled from Eton, my father sent me to Bedales. There I met Joe, Tom, and Caroline. We boys bonded over our love of music and, at the time, our lust for Caroline. We formed a band, and Caroline… well, she’d eventually chosen my brother.

“Rest in peace, Kit,” I murmur, and add under my breath, “I miss you, you fucker.”

The three of us are ensconced in the snug at the Coopers Arms, a warm and welcoming public house not far from my flat. Nursing our pints by the blazing fire, we’re two rounds in, and I’m beginning to feel the beer buzz.

“How are you holding up, mate?” Joe asks, tossing his shoulder-length dreads to one side. Joe, as well as being an excellent swordsman, has a promising career as a men’s fashion designer. His father, an émigré from Senegal, is one of the most successful hedge-fund managers in the UK.

“Good, I guess. But I’m not sure I’m ready for all the responsibility.”

“I get it,” Tom says. Red-haired and amber-eyed, Tom is the third son of a baronet, who followed family tradition by joining the army. As a lieutenant in the Coldstream Guards, he did a couple of tours of duty in Afghanistan and saw too many of his comrades fall. Two years ago he was invalided out of the army from wounds inflicted two years prior by an IED in Kabul. His left leg is held together by titanium, his temper not so much. Both Joe and I have come to recognize that pugnacious gleam in Tom’s eyes, and we know when it’s prudent to change the subject or get him out of the room. At his request we never mention The Incident.

“When is the memorial service?” Tom inquires.

“I was discussing that at lunchtime with Caroline and Maryanne. We thought after Easter.”

“How’s Caroline?”

I shift in my seat. “Grieving.” I shrug, giving Tom a level gaze.

Tom regards me, eyes narrowed, his interest piqued. “Something you not telling us?”

Shit.

Following The Incident, not only is Tom belligerent but he’s become irritatingly insightful. “Come on, Trevelyan, you’re not playing with a straight bat. What is it?”

“No. Nothing you need to know. How’s Henrietta?”

“Henry? She’s great, thanks, but she keeps dropping bloody almighty hints that I need to buck up and pop the fucking question,” Tom replies with a doleful look.

Joe and I both grin. “You’re a doomed man, bro,” Joe says, and claps him on the back.

Of the three of us, Tom is the only one in a long-term relationship. Henrietta is a saint. She nursed Tom through the trauma of his injuries, and she puts up with all of his bullshit, his PTSD, his temper. He could do a lot worse.

Both Joe and I like to play the field. Well, I used to. Unbidden, a vision of the raven-haired Alessia Demachi comes to my mind.

When did I last have sex?

I frown because I can’t remember. Shit.

“And Maryanne?” Joe asks, distracting me.

“She’s okay. Grieving, too.”

“Does she need comforting?”

Comforting like I comforted Caroline?

“Mate!” I scoff in warning.

House rules. Sisters are off-limits. I shake my head. Joseph still has a not-so-soft spot for my sister. She could do a lot worse, he’s a good guy, but I decide to burst his bubble. “She met some bloke while she was skiing in Whistler. He lives in Seattle. He’s a clinical psychologist or something. She plans to see him soon, I think.”

Joe gives me a quizzical look. “Really?” He rubs his rakish goatee, his eyes full of speculation. “Well, if he makes it over here, we’ll have to see if this geezer measures up.”

“He may be coming over next month. She’s pretty excited about it.”

“You know, now that you’re the earl, you’ll need to provide an heir and a spare,” Tom says.

“Yeah, yeah. Time enough for that yet.”

That’s what I’ve always been. The Spare… Kit’s nickname for me.

It turns out the title and lands needed the spare.

“Yeah. There’s no way you’re ready to settle down, mate. You’re as much of a serial shagger as I am. And I need a wingman,” Joe says with a broad grin.

“Come on, Trevelyan, you’ve shagged your way through most of London,” Tom taunts, and I don’t know if he’s disgusted or impressed.

“Fuck off, Tom,” I say, and we all laugh.

The pub’s landlady rings the bell above the bar. “Time, gentlemen, please,” she calls.

“Back to mine?” I ask. Both Tom and Joe agree, and the three of us sink our pints. “You okay to walk back?” I ask Tom.

“Fuck off. I got myself here, didn’t I?”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I’m running a fucking 5K in April, you wanker.”

I hold my hands up in surrender. I keep forgetting that physically he’s mended…

It is clear and sunny but bitterly cold, a day where her breath precedes her in a cloud of vapor as she hurries along Chelsea Embankment. There are still large patches of snow welded in icy clumps to the sidewalks, but the roads have been sanded. Traffic has returned to normal, and London is up and running again. Alessia’s train was delayed this morning, and now she’s a little late. But she would have happily walked from Brentford just to see him.

Alessia grins. She is finally at the front door to the Mister’s apartment, her favorite place in the world. She slips her key in the lock and braces herself for the sound of the alarm but is relieved at the silence. Closing the door, she’s surprised by the smell. The apartment reeks of stale alcohol.

Crinkling her nose at the unexpected odor, she removes her boots and pads barefoot into the kitchen. The worktops are littered with empty bottles of beer and greasy pizza boxes.

She jumps when she sees an athletic, attractive young man standing at the open fridge drinking orange juice directly from the carton. His skin is dark, he has long, knotted hair, and he’s dressed only in his boxer shorts. Alessia gapes at him. He turns toward her, and his face erupts in a broad grin of perfect white teeth.

“Well, hi there,” he says, his dark eyes widening in appreciation.

Alessia blushes and mumbles, “Hi,” then scurries into the laundry room.

Who is this man?

She scrambles out of her coat, and from her plastic bag slips on her cleaning uniform: housecoat and headscarf. Lastly she slides her feet into her sneakers.

Alessia peeks around the laundry room door into the kitchen. The Mister, wearing a black T-shirt and his ripped jeans, is standing beside the fridge sharing the carton of orange juice with the stranger.

“I just frightened your barefoot help. You tapped that yet? She’s hot.”

“Fuck off, Joe. And I’m not surprised you frightened her. Put some clothes on, you fucking exhibitionist.”

“Sorry, your lordship.” The stranger tugs at his hair and bows his head.

“Fuck off again,” the Mister says mildly, and he takes another swig of orange juice. “You can use my bathroom.”

The dark-haired man laughs and, turning to go, spies Alessia watching the banter. He grins again and waves at her, causing the Mister to look in her direction. His eyes light up, and a slow smile spreads across his face, and Alessia has no choice but to come out of hiding.

“Joe, this is Alessia. Alessia, Joe.” There is a warning tone to his voice, but Alessia doesn’t know if it is directed at her or at Joe.

“Good morning, Alessia. Please excuse my state of undress.” Joe gives her a theatrical bow, and when he’s upright, he has a wicked, amused glint in his dark eyes. His body is toned and lean—like the Mister’s. Each muscle of his abdomen is clearly defined.

“Good morning,” she whispers.

The Mister gives Joe a brooding glare. But Joe ignores him and winks at Alessia before he strolls out of the kitchen, whistling.

“Sorry about that,” the Mister says as he turns emerald eyes on her. “How are you today?” His slow smile returns.

Her flush deepens as her heart somersaults. Any inquiry he makes about her well-being, even one so commonplace, lifts her spirits.

“I am good. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you made it here. The trains running okay?”

“They are a little late.”

“Good morning.” A man with fiery red hair limps into the kitchen wearing only his boxer shorts and a scowl.

“Good God,” the Mister mumbles under his breath, and he scrapes his hand through his tousled hair.

Alessia regards this new friend who has joined them. Tall and handsome, his limbs are fair, with shockingly livid scars that crisscross his left leg and his left side like the tracks at a railway junction.

He notices Alessia staring at his scars.

“War wound,” he growls.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and she lowers her gaze to the floor, wishing it would open and swallow her whole.

“Tom, do you want some coffee?” the Mister asks, and it seems to Alessia he’s trying to defuse the sudden tension in the room.

“Bloody right. I need something for this god-awful hangover.”

Alessia scuttles back into the laundry room to start on the ironing. At least she’s out of sight and won’t offend any of the Mister’s friends from in there.

I watch Alessia’s hasty retreat into the scullery, her plait bouncing from side to side and brushing her waist.

“Who’s the pretty girl?”

“My daily.”

Tom nods with lascivious approval. I’m glad she’s gone back into her lair, away from Tom’s and Joe’s prying eyes. Their reaction makes me uneasy. Suddenly, surprisingly, I feel proprietary. It’s an unfamiliar emotion. I don’t want my friends ogling her. She’s mine. Well, she’s my employee.

You’re the Earl of Trevethick now. She’ll need to go on the payroll.

Shit.

She’s almost my employee. I need to sort out her employment status sooner rather than later. I don’t want Oliver or the Revenue breathing down my neck.

“What happened to Krystyna? I liked the old bird,” Tom says as he rubs his face.

“Krystyna’s gone back to Poland. Now, will you go and put some fucking clothes on? There is a lady present, for fuck’s sake,” I growl.

“Lady?”

Tom pales at the look I give him, and for once he doesn’t rise to the bait. “Sorry, old chap. I’ll go and get dressed. Milk, no sugar for me.” He shuffles out of the kitchen and back to the guest room. I chide myself for inviting my friends to stay when Alessia is working here. I’m not going to make that mistake again.

Alessia has managed to avoid the men for most of the morning, and she’s glad when they finally leave. She even contemplated hiding in the forbidden room, but Krystyna had been adamant. She is not to enter.

She’s cleared the blankets off the sofa in the living room and has stripped and remade the bed in the spare room. His bedroom is now tidy, and she was surprised and delighted to note there were still no used condoms in the wastebasket. Perhaps he’s disposing of them a different way. She doesn’t dwell on this thought, because it depresses her. She enters his walk-in closet to put away the ironing and gather up his dirty clothes. It’s only been a couple of days, but it’s a mess again.

The Mister is sitting at his computer and working, doing whatever it is that he does. She still has no idea how he makes his living. She recalls the smile that lit up his face when he first saw her this morning. His dazzling smile is contagious. Grinning like an idiot, she examines the pile of clothing on the floor of his closet. Kneeling down, she picks up one shirt, then glances quickly at the half-open door. Satisfied that she’s alone, she holds the shirt to her face, closes her eyes, and inhales his scent.

So good.

“There you are,” he says.

Alessia jumps and bolts upright rather too quickly, so that she stumbles backward. Two strong hands grab her arms and save her from falling.

“Easy,” he says, and gently holds her while she finds her balance. As soon as she does, to her regret, he releases her, but his touch still echoes through her body. “I was looking for a sweater. It’s a bright day, but cold. Are you warm enough?” he asks.

She nods vigorously, trying to catch her breath. Right now, in this small space with him, she’s too warm.

He surveys the pile of clothes on the floor and frowns. “It’s a mess, I know,” he mumbles with a sheepish expression on his face. “I’m pathologically untidy.”

“Path-o-log—”

“Pathological.”

“I do not know this word.”

“Oh… um… it refers to an extreme behavior.”

“I see,” Alessia responds, and she looks down at the clothes again and nods. “Yes. Pathological.” She gives him a wry expression, and he laughs.

“I’ll sort this out,” he says.

“No. No. I do it.” Alessia waves him away.

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“It is my job.”

He grins and reaches across her for a chunky cream sweater on one of the shelves. His arm brushes her shoulder, and she freezes as her heart goes into overdrive.

“Sorry,” he says, looking a little disheartened as he leaves the closet.

Once he’s gone, Alessia recovers her equilibrium.

Can he not tell the effect he has on me?

And he caught her sniffing his shirt. She covers her face. He must think she’s a complete idiot. Feeling mortified and angry with herself, she sinks to her knees and sorts through the pile of clothing, folding the clothes that don’t need washing and putting all his dirty stuff into the laundry basket.

I can’t keep my hands off her. Any excuse.

Leave her alone, dude.

And if I touch her, she freezes. I amble back to the drawing room, feeling glum. She just doesn’t like me.

Is this a first?

I think so. I’ve never struggled with women before. They’ve always been an easy diversion for me. With a healthy bank account, a flat in Chelsea, a pretty face, and an aristocratic family, I’ve never had a problem.

Ever.

Except now.

I should ask her out for a meal.

She looks like she could do with a decent meal.

Suppose she says no?

Then at least I’ll know.

I pace the length of the windowed wall in the drawing room, stopping to gaze out at the Peace Pagoda for a few minutes and trying to summon the nerve.

Why is this so difficult? Why her?

She’s beautiful. She’s talented.

She’s not interested.

Perhaps it’s as simple as that.

The first woman who’s ever said no.

She’s not said no. She might give me a chance.

Ask. Her. Out.

I take a deep breath and wander back into the hallway. She is standing outside my darkroom looking at the door and holding a laundry basket.

“It’s a darkroom,” I say as I stride toward her.

Her lovely brown eyes meet mine. She’s curious. And I remember that I’d asked Krystyna not to clean it sometime ago. It’s been a while since I’ve been in it myself.

“I’ll show you.” I’m grateful that she doesn’t back away like she normally does. “Do you want to see?”

She nods, and as I grab the laundry basket, my fingers brush hers. My heart slams against my ribs. “Let me have this.” My voice is gruff as I try to calm the pounding in my chest. Placing the basket on the floor behind me, I open the door, switch on the light, and stand aside to let her enter.

Alessia enters the small room. It glows with red light and smells of mysterious chemicals and the stale air of inactivity. There’s a bank of dark counter cabinets lining one wall, with large plastic trays on top. High above the cabinets are shelves crowded with bottles and stacks of paper and photographs. Beneath the shelves is an empty washing line from which a few pegs hang.

“It’s just a darkroom,” he says, and flicks on the dim overhead light so the red glow vanishes.

“Photography?” Alessia asks.

He nods. “It’s a hobby. I thought at one time I would take it up professionally.”

“The photographs in the apartment—you take them?”

“Yes. All of them. I had a few assignments, but…” His voice trails off.

The landscapes and the nudes.

“My father was a photographer.” He turns to a glass cabinet filled with cameras that’s behind him. He opens one of the doors and takes out a camera. Alessia catches the name “Leica” on the front.

Holding the camera up to my eye, I study Alessia through the lens. She is all dark eyes, long lashes, high cheekbones, and full, parted lips. My groin tightens.

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, and press the shutter.

Alessia’s mouth drops open, but she shakes her head and covers her face with her hands, though they don’t conceal her smile. I take another shot.

“You are,” I say. “Look.” And I hold the back of the camera out to her so that she can see the image. She stares down at her face that’s been captured digitally in fine detail and then looks up at me—and I’m lost. Lost in the magic of her dark, dark gaze. “See,” I murmur. “You’re stunning.” Reaching forward, I tip up her chin and, leaning down, inching closer and closer so she has a chance to move away, I brush my lips against hers. She gasps, and as I pull back, she touches her fingers to her mouth, her eyes growing rounder.

“That’s how I feel,” I whisper, my heart pounding.

Will she slap me? Will she flee?

She stares at me. An ethereal vision in the muted light, she tentatively raises her hand and traces my lips with her fingertips. I freeze, closing my eyes as her tender touch reverberates through my body.

I daren’t breathe.

I don’t want to frighten her away.

I feel her feather-light touch, everywhere.

Everywhere.

Fuck.

And before I can stop myself, I pull her into my embrace and wrap my arms around her. She melts against the length of my body, her warmth leaching into me.

Oh, man, the feel of her.

I slide my fingers under her scarf and gently slip it off her head. Clasping her plait at the base of her neck, I tug lightly, bringing her lips up to mine. “Alessia,” I breathe, and kiss her again, softly, slowly, so as not to frighten her. She stills in my arms, then brings her hands up to clutch my biceps, closing her eyes as she accepts me.

I deepen the kiss, my tongue teasing her lips, and she opens her mouth.

Fuck.

She tastes of warmth and grace and sweet seduction. Her tongue hesitant and faltering against mine. It’s captivating. It’s arousing.

I have to hold myself back. I want nothing more than to bury myself in this girl—but I don’t think she’ll let me. I draw back. “What’s my name?” I murmur against her lips.

“Mister,” she whispers as I run my thumb down her cheek.

“Maxim. Say Maxim.”

“Maxim,” she breathes.

“Yes.” I love the sound of my name in her accent.

See, that wasn’t so hard.

Suddenly there’s a loud, insistent banging on the front door.

Who the hell is that? How did they get into the building?

Reluctantly I step back. “Don’t go anywhere.” I hold up my finger in warning.

“Open the door, Mr. Trev… an!” a disembodied voice bellows from outside. “Immigration!”

“Oh, no,” Alessia whispers, and she clutches her throat, her eyes wide with fear.

“Don’t be afraid.”

The knock rattles the door once more. “Mr. Trev… yan!” The voice is perceptibly louder.

“I’ll deal with this,” I mutter, pissed off that we’ve been interrupted. Leaving Alessia in the darkroom, I head down the hallway.

Through the peephole in the front door, I assess the two men outside. One is short, the other is tall, and both are dressed in cheap gray suits and black parkas. They don’t look particularly official. I pause, debating whether or not to answer. But I should find out why they’re here and if it’s anything to do with Alessia.

I thread the sturdy security chain through the catch and open the door.

One of the men tries to burst in, but with my body pressed against the door, the chain holds. He’s the short one. Thickset and balding, he oozes aggression from every pore in his body and from his sly, shrewd eyes. “Where is she, mister?” he barks.

I recoil.

Who are these lowlifes?

Baldy’s partner looms behind him: thin, silent, and menacing. The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.

“Can I see some ID?” My voice is equally menacing.

“Open the door. We’re from immigration, and we believe you have a failed asylum seeker in your apartment.” The stocky guy speaks again as his nostrils flare in anger. He has a distinct Eastern European accent.

“You need a warrant to search these premises. Where is it?” I hiss with the authority that comes from a life of privilege and several years at one of the best public schools in Britain.

The large man hesitates for a moment, and I smell a rat.

Who the fuck are these men?

“Your warrant, where is it?” I snarl.

Baldy looks uncertainly at his cohort.

“Where is the girl?” The tall, thin bloke speaks.

“There is no one here but me. Who are you looking for?”

“A girl—”

“Aren’t we all?” I sneer. “Now, can I suggest you fuck off and come back with a warrant or I’ll call the police.” Taking my phone out of my back pocket, I hold it up in front of them. “But just so we’re clear. There are no girls here, let alone illegal immigrants.” I lie easily, a skill that’s also a product of several years at one of the best public schools in Britain. “Shall I call the police?”

Both of them take a step back.

At that moment Mrs. Beckstrom, who lives in the neighboring flat, opens her front door, holding Heracles, her yappy lapdog.

“Hello, Maxim,” she calls.

Bless you, Mrs. Beckstrom.

“Very well, Mr. Trev… Trev.” He can’t pronounce my name.

It’s Lord Trevethick to you, fucker!

“We shall be back with a warrant.” He turns on his heel, jerks his head at his colleague, and they brush past Mrs. Beckstrom on their way toward the stairs. She glares at them, then smiles at me.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. B.,” I say with a wave, and close the door.

How the hell did those thugs find out that Alessia was here? Why are they chasing her? What has she done? There’s no “immi gration” department. It’s called Border Force and has been for years. I take a deep breath in an effort to damp down my anxiety and head back into the darkroom, where I suspect Alessia will be trembling in a corner.

She’s not there.

She’s not in the kitchen.

My concern mushrooms into full-scale panic as I race through the flat calling her name. She’s not in the bedrooms or the drawing room. Finally I search the scullery. The fire-escape door is ajar, and her coat and boots are missing.

Alessia has fled.