The Mister

by James, E L

My title…now.

  “Of course.” Mr. Rajah nods with a polite deference that I find irritating. “Would you like to come with me? We’re having lunch in the partners’ dining room, and I must say we have one of the finest cellars in London.”

  * * *

  Mesmerized, I stare at the dancing flames of the fire at my club in Mayfair.

  Earl of Trevethick.

  That’s me. Now.

  It’s inconceivable. It’s devastating.

  How I envied my brother’s title and his position in the family when I was younger. Kit had been the favored child since birth, especially with my mother, but then he was the heir, not the spare. Known as Viscount Porthtowan since he was born, Kit had become the twelfth Earl of Trevethick at the age of twenty upon our father’s sudden death. At twenty-eight I’m lucky number thirteen. And though I’ve coveted the title and all that goes with it, now that it’s mine, I feel like I’m intruding on my brother’s domain.

  You fucked his countess last night. That’s more than intruding.

  I take a slug of the Glenrothes I’m drinking and raise my glass. “A toast to the Ghost,” I whisper, and smile at the irony. The Glenrothes was my father’s whisky of choice, and my brother’s—and from today this 1992 vintage will be mine.

  I can’t pinpoint the moment I made peace with Kit’s inheritance and with Kit himself, but it happened sometime in my late teens. He had the title, he’d won the girl, and I had to accept that. But now everything is mine. Everything.

  Even your wife. Well, for last night at least.

  But the irony is that Kit has made no provision for Caroline in his will.

  Nothing.

  This is what she feared.

  How could he have been so remiss? He’d drawn a new will four months ago but he hadn’t made provisions for her. They’d only been married for two years….

  What was he thinking?

  Of course, she may challenge it. And who would blame her?

  I rub my face.

  What am I going to do?

  My phone buzzes.

  WHERE ARE YOU?

  It’s a text from Caroline.

  I switch off my phone and order another drink. I don’t want to see her tonight. I want to lose myself in someone else. Someone new. Someone with no strings attached, and I think I’ll score some blow, too. I pull out my phone and open Tinder.

  * * *

  “Maxim, this is a stunning flat.” She gazes out over the murky water of the Thames that glimmers with light from the Peace Pagoda. I take her jacket and drape it over the back of the sofa.

  “Drink or something stronger?” I offer. We are not going to be in the drawing room for long. On cue she flicks her shining black hair over her shoulder. Her hazel eyes, framed with kohl, are intent on me.

  Licking painted lips, she arches a brow and asks, “Something stronger?” Her tone is seductive. “What are you drinking?”

  Ah…she’s not taking the hint, so no coke, then, but she’s way ahead of me. I step closer so that she has to angle her head to look up at me. I’m careful not to touch her.

  “I’m not thirsty, Heather.” I pitch my voice low, pleased that I’ve remembered her name. She swallows, and her lips part.

  “Me neither,” she whispers, and her provocative smile reaches her eyes.

  “What do you want?” I watch as her gaze moves to my mouth. It’s an invitation. I pause for a moment, just to make sure I’m reading her correctly, then lean down and kiss her. It’s the briefest touch: lips on lips, then nothing.

  “I think you know what I want.” She reaches up to run her fingers through my hair and pull me back to her warm and willing mouth. She tastes of brandy with a faint hint of cigarettes. The taste is distracting. I don’t remember seeing her smoke at the club. I pull her hard against me, one hand at her waist while the other travels down over her lush curves. She has a small waist and large, firm breasts, which she presses enticingly against me. I wonder if they’ll taste as good as they feel. My hand skims down to her backside as I deepen the kiss, exploring her eager mouth.

  “What do you want?” I whisper against her lips.

  “You.” Her voice is breathy and urgent. She’s turned on. Big time. She begins to unbutton my shirt. I hold still as she eases it off my shoulders and lets it fall to the floor.

  Do I take her here or in my bed? Comfort wins and I grab her hand. “Come with me.” I tug her gently, and she follows me out of the drawing room and down the hall, into the bedroom.

  The room is tidy, as I knew it would be.

  God bless Krystyna.

  I switch the bedside lights on from the wall and walk her to the bed. “Turn around.”

  Heather does as she’s told but sways a little in her high heels. “Steady.” I clasp her shoulders and pull her tight against me, then turn her head toward me so I can see her eyes. They’re intent on my lips, but she looks up at me. Eyes bright. Clear. Focused. Sober enough. I nuzzle her neck, tasting her soft, fragrant skin with my tongue. “I think it’s time to lie down.” I unzip her short red dress and peel it over her shoulders, pausing as I expose the tops of her breasts concealed by a red bra. I skim my thumbs across the surface of the lacy fabric. She groans and arches her back, pushing her breasts into my hands.

  Oh, yes.

  My thumbs dip beneath the delicate material and circle her hardening nipples as she gropes behind her for the button on my jeans. “We have all night,” I murmur, and release her before stepping back so that her dress slides down her body and pools at her feet.

  A red thong reveals her shapely behind.

  “Turn around. I want to see you.”

  Heather tosses her hair over her shoulder as she turns and gives me a searing look from beneath her lashes. She has the most magnificent breasts.

  I smile. She smiles.

  This is going to be fun.

  Reaching forward, she grabs the waistband of my jeans and tugs sharply so her glorious tits are once more pressed against my chest. “Kiss me,” she growls, her voice low and demanding. She runs her tongue over her top teeth, and my body responds, my groin tightening.

  “Only too happy to oblige, madam.”

  I clasp her head, my fingers in her silky hair, and kiss her more roughly this time. She responds, her hands grabbing fistfuls of my hair as our tongues lock. She stops and looks up at me with a salacious glint in her eyes, as if finally seeing me and liking what she sees. Then her lips are once more feverish against mine.

  Man, she really wants this.

  Nimble fingers find the top button of my jeans, and she pulls. Laughing, I grab her hands and push her gently so we both fall onto the bed.

  * * *

  Heather. Her name is Heather, and she’s fast asleep beside me. I glance at my bedside clock; it’s 5:15 A.M. She’s a good fuck, no doubt about it. But now I want her gone. How long will I have to lie here listening to the soft sound of her breathing? Perhaps I should have gone to her flat instead, so then I could leave. But my place was nearer—and we were both impatient. As I stare at the ceiling, I mentally run through our evening, trying to remember what, if any, details I’ve learned about her. She works in television—or “telly,” as she calls it—and she has to be at work in the morning, which means she has to leave soon, surely? She lives in Putney. She’s hot. And willing. Yes, very willing. She likes to be on her front during intercourse, she’s quiet when she comes, and she has a talented mouth that knows exactly how to revive a spent man. My cock stirs at the memory, and I contemplate waking her up for more. Her dark hair is fanned out on the pillow, and her expression is serene in sleep. I ignore the pang of envy that her serenity inspires and wonder if I got to know her better, would I find the same peace?

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. I want her gone.

  You have intimacy issues. Caroline’s nagging voice
reverberates through my mind.

  Caroline. Shit.

  Three whining texts and several missed calls from Caroline have pissed me off. My jeans lie on the floor in a crumpled heap. From the back pocket, I retrieve my phone. Checking on the sleeping form beside me—no, she hasn’t stirred—I read my messages from Caroline.

  WHERE RU?

  CALL ME!

  *POUTING*

  What is her problem?

  She knows the deal; she’s known me long enough. A quick tumble between the sheets isn’t going to change how I feel about her. I love her…in my own way, but as a friend, a good friend.

  I scowl. I haven’t called her. I don’t want to. I don’t know what to say.

  Coward. The voice of my conscience whispers. I need to put this right. Above me the shimmers from the Thames bob and weave, free and easy. Taunting me. Reminding me of what I’ve lost.

  Freedom.

  And what I have now.

  Responsibility.

  Shit.

  Guilt overwhelms me. It’s an unfamiliar and unwelcome feeling—Kit has bequeathed everything to me. Everything. And Caroline has nothing from his estate. She’s my brother’s wife. And we fucked. No wonder I feel guilty. And deep down I know she feels it, too. That’s why she left in the middle of the night without waking me, without saying good-bye. If only the girl beside me would do the same.

  I quickly type out a text to Caro.

  Busy today. You OK?

  It’s five in the morning. Caroline will be asleep. I’m safe. I’ll deal with her later today…or tomorrow.

  Heather stirs, and her eyelids flitter open.

  “Hi.” She gives me a tentative smile. I reciprocate, but her smile fades. “I should go,” she says.

  “Go?” Hope swells in my chest. “You don’t have to go.” I manage not to sound disingenuous.

  “I do. I have to work, and I don’t think my red dress will cut it in the office.” She sits up, clutching the silk quilt to conceal her curves. “That was…good, Maxim. If I leave my number, will you call me? I’d rather speak on the phone than message on Tinder.”

  “Of course,” I lie smoothly. I pull her face to mine and kiss her tenderly. Her smile is bashful. Rising, she wraps the quilt securely around her body and starts to gather her clothes from the floor.

  “Shall I call you a cab?” I ask.

  “I can Uber.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Okay, thank you. I’m going to Putney.”

  She tells me her address, I get up, slip on my discarded jeans, and taking my phone, leave the bedroom to give her some privacy. It’s strange how some women behave the morning after: shy and quiet. She’s no longer the lascivious, demanding siren of the night before.

  Once I’ve ordered a car I wait, staring out across the dark Thames. When she finally appears, she hands me a scrap of paper. “My number.”

  “Thanks.” I slip it into the back pocket of my jeans. “Your car will be here in five minutes.”

  She stands awkwardly, her postcoital shyness taking hold. As the silence stretches between us, she surveys the room, looking anywhere but at me.

  “This is a lovely flat. Airy,” she says, and I know that we’ve resorted to chitchat to fill the awkwardness. She spots my guitar and the piano. “You play?” She walks over to the baby grand.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s why you’re so good with your hands,” she says. Then frowns as if she’s realized that she’s spoken aloud, and her cheeks flush a fetching pink.

  “Do you play?” I ask, ignoring her comment.

  “No—I never made it further than recorder group in year two.” Relief softens her features, probably because I ignored her comment about my hands. “And all that?” She points to my decks and the iMac on a desk in the corner of the room.

  “I DJ.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Couple of times a month at a club in Hoxton.”

  “Hence all the vinyl.” She glances at the shelved wall housing my record collection.

  I nod.

  “And the photography?” She waves a hand at the black-and-white landscapes that hang on large canvases in the drawing room.

  “Yes. And occasionally on the other side of the camera.”

  She looks confused.

  “Modeling. Editorial, mainly.”

  “Oh, that makes sense. You really are a man of many parts.” She grins, feeling a little more confident. She should. She’s a goddess.

  “Jack of all trades,” I reply with a self-deprecating smile, and her grin vanishes, replaced by a puzzled frown.

  “Is something wrong?” she asks.

  Wrong? What the hell is she talking about? “No. Nothing.” My phone buzzes, and it’s a text to let me know her car has arrived. “I’ll call you,” I say as I pick up her jacket and hold it open for her to shrug on.

  “No you won’t. But don’t worry. That’s Tinder for you. I had fun.”

  “Me, too.” I’m not about to contradict her.

  I follow her to the front door. “Do you want me to walk you down?”

  “No thanks. I’m a big girl. Good-bye, Maxim. It was nice knowing you.”

  “Same here…Heather.”

  “Well done.” She beams, pleased that I’ve remembered her name, and it’s impossible not to return her smile. “That’s better,” she says. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.” Reaching up, she gives me a chaste kiss on the cheek. She turns and teeters on her high heels toward the lifts. I frown at her departing figure, watching her fine arse move beneath her red dress.

  Find what I’m looking for? What the hell does that mean?

  I’ve got all this. I’ve just had you. It will be someone else tomorrow. What more do I need?

  For some unknown reason, her words irritate me, but I shake them off and head back to bed, relieved that she’s gone. As I strip off my jeans and slip between the sheets, her challenging parting words echo through my mind.

  I hope you find what you’re looking for.

  Where the fuck did that come from?

  I’ve just inherited a vast estate in Cornwall, an estate in Oxfordshire, another in Northumberland, and a small portion of London—but at what cost?

  Kit’s pale, lifeless face surfaces in my imagination.

  Shit.

  So many people are now relying on me, too many, far too many: tenant farmers, estate workers, household staff in four houses, the developers in Mayfair….

  Hell.

  Fuck you, Kit. Fuck you for dying.

  I close my eyes as I fight back unshed tears, and with Heather’s parting words ringing in my head I fall into a stupor.

  Chapter Two

  Alessia digs her hands farther into the pockets of Michal’s old anorak in a vain attempt to warm her cold fingers. Huddled in her scarf, she trudges through the freezing winter drizzle toward the apartment block on Chelsea Embankment. Today is Wednesday, her second day here without Krystyna, and she is heading back to the big apartment with the piano.

  In spite of the weather, she’s feeling a sense of achievement because she’s survived the cramped and crowded train journey without her usual anxiety. She’s beginning to understand that this is what London is like. There are too many people, too much noise, and too much traffic. But worst of all, no one speaks to anyone else, except to say “Excuse me” if they jostle her or “Move down the carriage, please.” Everyone hides behind their free newspaper or listens to music on headphones or stares at their phones or electronic books, avoiding all eye contact.

  That morning Alessia had been lucky enough to find a seat on the train, but the woman beside her had spent much of the journey shrieking into her phone about her unsuccessful date the night before. Alessia had ignored her and read the free newspaper to improve her Englis
h, but she’d wished she could listen to music through headphones and not this woman’s loud whining. Once she finished the paper, she’d closed her eyes and daydreamed of majestic mountains dotted with snow and pastures where the air was scented with thyme and filled with the hum of honeybees. She misses home. She misses the peace and quiet. She misses her mother, and she misses her piano.

  Her fingers flex in her pockets as she recalls her warm-up piece, hearing the notes loud and clear in her mind and seeing them in blazing color. How long has it been since she played? Her excitement builds as she thinks of the piano waiting for her in the apartment.

  She makes her way through the entrance of the old building toward the elevator, barely able to contain her enthusiasm, and then up to the top-floor apartment. For a few hours on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, this wonderful place with its large airy rooms, dark wooden floors, and baby grand piano is all hers. She unlocks the door, poised to switch off the alarm, but to her surprise there’s no warning tone. Perhaps the system’s broken or it’s not been set. Or…No. She realizes to her horror that the owner must be at home. Listening hard, trying to detect any signs of life, she stands in the wide hallway that’s hung with black-and-white photographic landscapes. She hears nothing.

  Mirë.

  No. “Good.” English. Think in English. Whoever lives here must have gone to work and forgotten to set the alarm. She’s never met the man, but she knows he has a good job, because the apartment is huge. How else can he afford it? She sighs. He might be rich, but he’s a complete slob. She’s been here three times already, twice with Krystyna, and each time the apartment is a mess and requires hours of tidying and cleaning.

  The gray day is seeping through the skylight at the end of the hall, so Alessia flicks the switch and the crystal chandelier above her bursts into life, illuminating the hallway. She peels off her woolen scarf and hangs it up with her anorak in the closet beside the front door. From her plastic shopping bag, she pulls out the old sneakers that Magda has given her, and after taking off her wet boots and socks she slips them on, grateful that they are dry so her frozen feet can warm up. Her thin jersey top and T-shirt are no match for the cold. She rubs her arms briskly to bring some life back into them as she makes her way through the kitchen into the laundry room. There she dumps her shopping bag on the counter. Out of it she pulls the ill-fitting nylon housecoat that Krystyna bequeathed her and puts it on, then fastens a pale blue scarf around her head in an effort to keep her thick braid in check. From the cupboard beneath the sink, she takes out the cleaning caddy, and from the top of the washing machine she grabs the laundry basket and heads straight to his bedroom. If she hurries, she can finish the apartment before it’s time to leave and the piano will be hers for a short while.