The Mister
Page 13
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 “immigration” 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.
Chapter Nine
Alessia flies down the fire escape, her heart racing as adrenaline and fear fuel her body. Once she reaches the bottom, she’s in the side alley. She should be safe here. The gate to the street at the rear of the building is locked from the inside. But to be sure, she ducks between two of the dumpsters, where the residents of Mister Maxim’s block dispose of their trash. She leans against the brick wall and drags air into her lungs, trying to catch her breath.
How have they found her? How?
She had recognized Dante’s voice immediately, and all her suppressed memories had surfaced in a terrifying rush.
The dark.
The smell.
The fear.
The cold.
The smell. Ugh. The smell.
Tears well in her eyes, and she tries to blink them away. She has led them to him! She knows how ruthless they are and what they are capable of doing. She lets out a loud sob and puts her fist in her mouth as she cowers on the cold ground.
He could be hurt.
No.
She has to check. She can’t flee if he’s hurt.
Think, Alessia. Think.
The only person who knows she is here is Magda.
Magda!
No. Did they find Magda and Michal?
What have they done to them?
Magda.
Michal.
Mister…Maxim.
Her breath comes in short, sharp bursts as panic closes her throat. She thinks she’s going to faint, but suddenly her stomach roils, bile rises in her throat, and before she knows it, she’s doubled over and vomiting her breakfast onto the ground. As she retches and retches, she splays her hands on the brick wall until there’s nothing left in her stomach. The physical effort of throwing up leaves her wrung out but a little calmer. Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she stands, feeling dizzy, and peeks into the alley to see if anyone has heard her. She’s still alone.
Thank God.
Think, Alessia, think.
The first thing she has to do is check t
hat the Mister is okay. Taking a deep breath, she leaves her refuge between the dumpsters and makes her way back up the fire escape. She moves cautiously as a sense of self-preservation kicks in. She needs to know the coast is clear, but she cannot be seen by them. It’s six stories high, so by the time she reaches the fifth story, she’s winded. She inches her way up the next staircase and peeps through the metal railings into the penthouse apartment. The laundry door is closed, but she can see into the living room. There’s no sign of life at first, but then, all of a sudden, the Mister barges into the living room, and she can tell he’s fetching something from his desk. He’s there for a moment before he bolts back out of the room.
Her body slumps against the metal balustrade. He’s safe.
Thank God.
With her curiosity appeased and her conscience reassured, she staggers back down the fire escape, knowing she has to check that Magda and Michal are okay.
At ground level in the alley once more, she changes into her boots and makes her way to the gate at the rear entrance of the apartment block. It opens onto the backstreet, not onto Chelsea Embankment. She pauses for a moment. Perhaps Dante and Ylli will be there waiting for her? They will be out front, surely? With her heart beating a frantic tempo, she opens the gate and peers into the street. The only sign of life is a dark green sports car speeding to the end of the road; there’s no sign of Dante and his sidekick, Ylli. Taking her woolly hat out of her bag, she tugs it on, tucks her hair inside, and sets off for the bus stop.
She walks briskly along the street, fighting the urge to run, knowing that might attract unwanted attention. She keeps her head down and her hands in her pockets, and with each step she prays to her grandmother’s God to keep Magda and Michal safe. She says it over and over again, alternating between her native tongue and English.
Ruaji, Zot.
Ruaji, Zot.
God keep them safe.
* * *
I’ve stood paralyzed in the hallway for what seems like an age. I’m filled with dread, and my blood is thundering in my ears.