The Mister

by James, E L

  But then I recall her confession in the car park.

  She escaped.

  Escaped!

  “They wanted us to be clean…we would bring a higher price.”

  I exhale.

  I hope, for her sake, that she managed to avoid any horror. But somehow I doubt it. The journey alone must have been a nightmare. I try to grasp the magnitude of what she’s been through and what she’s achieved. She escaped. Found a place to live. A job. And she escaped again this afternoon from my flat. While she has nothing, she’s one resourceful young woman: ingenious, talented, courageous, and beautiful. My heart swells with unexpected pride.

  “You really are something, Alessia,” I whisper, but she’s lost in the music and doesn’t hear me.

  * * *

  It’s after midnight when I pull up the gravel drive and park outside the garage of the Hideout, one of the luxury holiday homes on the Trevethick estate. I don’t want to overwhelm Alessia with the Hall—maybe that can happen later. The truth is, I want her to myself. There are too many staff in the great house, and I haven’t figured out what I’ll say about her or to her about the estate. Right now she doesn’t know who I am, what I have, and what my birthright entails. And I like that…I like that a lot.

  She’s asleep. She must be exhausted. I study her face. Even in the harsh glare of the garage’s security light, her features are soft and delicate in repose.

  Sleeping beauty.

  I could look at her for hours. She grimaces briefly, and I wonder what she’s dreaming about.

  Me?

  I consider carrying her into the house but dismiss the idea. The steps down to the front door are steep and can be slippery. I could kiss her awake. She should be woken with a kiss, like a princess. I’m being ridiculous, and I remember that I’ve vowed not to touch her.

  “Alessia,” I whisper. “We’re here.”

  Opening her eyes, she regards me sleepily. “Hello,” she says.

  “Hello, beautiful. We’ve arrived.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Alessia blinks the sleep from her eyes and peers through the windshield. All she sees is a piercing light above a large steel door and a smaller wooden door to the side. The rest of the view is shrouded in darkness, though in the distance she hears a faint rumble. With the heater off, the frigid winter air infiltrates the car. Alessia shivers.

  She is here. Alone with him.

  She shoots him an anxious glance. Now that she’s sitting in the dark, with this man she hardly knows, she wonders at the wisdom of her decision. The only people who saw her leave with him were Magda and the security guard.

  “Come on,” Maxim says, and, climbing out of the car, he goes to the trunk to retrieve her bags, his shoes crunching on the gravel.

  Dismissing her unease, she opens the car door and steps onto the gravel.

  Outside, it’s cold. She huddles into her anorak as the icy wind whistles in her ears. The rumble in the distance is louder. She wonders what it is. Maxim puts his arm around her, in a gesture that she suspects is to protect her from the cold. Together they walk to the gray wooden door. He unlocks it and pushes it open, ushering her ahead of him. He flips a switch inside the gatepost, and small lights embedded in the side of the flagstone steps light the path down to a stone courtyard.

  “This way,” he says, and she follows him down the steep steps. An imposing contemporary house lit by uplighters in the ground stands before them. Alessia marvels at its modernity—all glass and white walls, bathed in light. Maxim unlocks the front door and guides her inside. He flips another light switch, and subtle downlighters illuminate the alabaster space with a soft glow. “Let me have your coat,” he says, and she shrugs out of her anorak.

  They are standing in an open hallway beside an impressive cloud-gray galley kitchen that’s part of a vast wood-floored room. To the rear there are two turquoise sofas with a coffee table between them, and beyond that shelving stacked with books.

  Books! She admires them and notices another door beside the shelves.

  This house is so big.

  The staircase next to her is enclosed in glass. The wooden steps appear to be suspended in the air, but they are anchored in a massive concrete block that runs down the center of the stairwell and extends to upper and lower floors.

  It’s the most contemporary house she’s ever been in. And yet in spite of its modern design, it has a welcoming, warm feel.

  Alessia begins to undo her bootlaces as Maxim marches into the kitchen and places her bags and their coats on the worktop. As she removes her boots, she’s surprised by the warmth of the floor underfoot.

  “This is it,” he says, gesturing at their surroundings. “Welcome to the Hideout.”

  “The Hideout?”

  “It’s the name of this house.”

  On the other side of the kitchen is the main living area, with a white dining table that seats twelve people and two large dove-colored sofas that stand in front of a sleek steel fireplace.

  “It looks bigger than from outside,” Alessia says, intimidated by the scale and elegance of the house.

  “Deceptive. I know.”

  Who cleans this place? It must take hours!

  “And this house, it belongs to you?”

  “Yes. It’s a holiday home that we rent out to the public. It’s late and you must be exhausted. But would you like something to eat or a drink before bed?”

  Alessia hasn’t moved from her spot in the hallway.

  He owns this, too? He must be a very successful composer.

  She nods at his offer.

  “Do you mean yes?” he asks with a grin.

  She smiles.

  “Wine? Beer? Something stronger?” he asks, and she steps closer. Where she’s from, women generally don’t drink alcohol, though she’s sneaked a raki or two, but only in the last couple of years, on New Year’s Eve. Her father doesn’t approve of her drinking.

  Her father doesn’t approve of many things…

  Her grandmother had given her wine. But Alessia had not cared for it. “Beer,” she says, because she’s only ever seen men drink it—and to spite her father.

  “Good choice.” Maxim grins, and from the fridge he removes two brown bottles. “Pale ale okay?”

  She doesn’t know what that means, so she nods.

  “Glass?” he asks, as he pops off both tops.

  “Yes. Please.”

  From another cupboard he takes out a tall glass and deftly pours one of the bottles into it. “Cheers,” he says as he hands Alessia her drink. He clinks her glass with his beer bottle and takes a swig, his lips circling the bottle’s neck. He closes his eyes, savoring the taste, and for some reason she has to look away.

  His lips.

  “Gëzuar,” she whispers. He raises his eyebrows, surprised to hear her speaking her native tongue. It’s a toast, mainly made by men, but he doesn’t know that. She takes a sip, and the chilled amber liquid runs down her throat.

  “Mmm.” She closes her eyes in appreciation and takes another, longer draft.

  “Are you hungry?” His voice is husky.

  “No.”

  * * *

  The sight of her enjoying the simple pleasure of a beer is a thrill. But now, probably for the first time ever, I’m a little lost for words. I don’t know what she expects. It’s strange. We have nothing in common, and the intimacy we shared in the car seems to have vanished.

  “Come, I’ll give you a quick tour.” I offer her my hand and show her into the larger living space. “Drawing room. Um…living area, I suppose. It’s all open-plan.” I wave my hand in the general direction of the room.

  * * *

  Now that she’s farther into the room, Alessia notices the gleaming white upright piano against the wall beside her.

  A piano!

&nb
sp; “You can play to your heart’s content while you’re here,” Maxim says.

  Her heart skips a beat, and she beams at him as he releases her hand. She lifts the lid. Written on the inside is the word:

  KAWAI

  She doesn’t recognize the name, but that doesn’t bother her. She presses middle C, and it echoes in a golden yellow hue through the big room.

  “E përkryer,” she breathes.

  Perfect.

  “Balcony over there.” Maxim points to the wall of glass at the far end of the room. “The sea is beyond.”

  “The sea?” she exclaims, and whips her head to his, wanting confirmation.

  “Yes,” he says, puzzled and amused by her response.

  She races to the glass. “I’ve never seen the sea!” she whispers, squinting through the murky dark and flattening her nose against the cold glass in her desperation to catch a glimpse. To her disappointment there is nothing but a jet-black night beyond the balcony.

  “Never?” Maxim sounds incredulous as he steps up beside her.

  “No,” she says. She notices the little smudge marks her nose and breath have made on the window. Pulling her sleeve over her hand, she rubs them away.

  “We’ll take a walk on the beach tomorrow,” he says.

  Alessia’s smile becomes a yawn.

  “You’re tired.” Maxim glances at his watch. “It’s half past midnight. Do you want to go to bed?”

  Alessia stills, gazing at him as her heartbeat soars, and his question hangs between them full of possibility.

  Bed? Your bed?

  “I’ll show you to your room,” he murmurs, but neither of them moves. They stare at each other, and Alessia can’t decide whether she’s relieved or disappointed. Perhaps more disappointed than relieved—she doesn’t know.

  “You’re frowning,” he whispers. “Why?”

  She remains mute, unable or unwilling to articulate what she’s thinking or feeling. She is curious. She likes him. But she knows nothing about sex.

  “No,” he utters, as if talking to himself. “Come on, I’ll take you to your room.” He collects her plastic bags from the kitchen counter, and she follows him up the staircase. At the top of the stairs is a brightly lit landing with two doors. Maxim opens the second one and switches on the light.

  The off-white room is spacious and airy, with a king-size bed against the far wall and a large window to one side. The linen is off-white, too, but the bed is scattered with cushions that match the colors in the dramatic seascape that hangs above the bed.

  Maxim waves her inside and places her bags on a colorful embroidered bench. As she approaches the bed, she stares at her reflection in the dark window. Maxim moves to stand behind her. Mirrored in the glass, he’s tall, lean, and more than handsome, and she looks wan and scruffy beside him. In every way, they are not equals, and that’s never been more apparent than at this moment.

  What does he see in me? I am only his cleaner.

  Her mind casts back to his sister-in-law in the kitchen. She had looked elegant and stylish wearing only his oversize shirt. Alessia turns her head so she’s no longer taunted by her own image while Maxim draws down the pale green blind and continues to show her around the room.

  “There’s an en suite here for you,” he says gently, pointing to the bathroom door and diverting her from her discouraging thoughts.

  My own bathroom!

  “Thank you,” she says, but the words seem woefully inadequate for the debt she owes him.

  “Hey,” he says, standing in front of her, his bright eyes brimming with compassion. “I realize that this is all very sudden, Alessia. And we hardly know each other. But I couldn’t leave you at the mercy of those men. You have to understand that.” He catches a loose strand of hair that’s worked its way free from her braid and gently tucks it behind her ear. “Don’t worry. You’re safe here. I’m not going to touch you. Well, not unless you want me to.” Alessia catches a trace of his scent, evergreen and sandalwood. She closes her eyes, trying to keep a tight rein on her emotions. “This is my family’s holiday home,” he continues. “Think of our time here as a holiday. A place to think, reflect, get to know each other, and get some distance from all the recent dreadful events in your life.”

  A lump forms in Alessia’s throat, and she bites her upper lip.

  Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Mos qaj.

  “My room’s next door, if you need anything. But right now, it’s really late and what we both need is some sleep.” He plants a tender kiss on her forehead. “Good night.”

  “Good night.” Her voice is hoarse and almost inaudible.

  He turns and leaves the room, and she’s finally alone, standing in the confines of the most glorious bedroom she has ever been invited to sleep in. She looks from the painting to the bathroom door to the magnificent bed, and slowly she sinks to the floor. Wrapping her arms around herself, she begins to weep.

  * * *

  I hang our coats in the cloakroom, then collect my beer from the kitchen counter and enjoy a long draft.

  What a day!

  That first sweet kiss, I groan thinking about it—interrupted by those fucking thugs—and then her sudden disappearance and my mad drive to that godforsaken corner of West London.

  And her revelation. Sex-trafficked.

  Fuck—that was one hell of a shock.

  And now we’re here. Alone.

  I rub my face, trying to process everything that’s happened. I should be tired after the long drive and the trials and tribulations of the day, but instead I’m wired. Glancing up at the ceiling, I pinpoint where Alessia should, I hope, be sleeping peacefully. She’s the real reason I’m restless. It took every shred of self-control not to pull her into my arms and…And what? Even after all she’s told me, I can’t keep my thoughts above my waist. I’m like a fucking horny schoolboy.

  Leave the woman alone.

  But the truth is, I still want her and don’t my blue balls know it.

  Hell. After all Alessia’s been through, she deserves a break.

  She doesn’t need my lascivious attention.

  She needs a friend.

  Bugger. What the hell is wrong with me?

  I grab my beer and drain the bottle, then reach for Alessia’s glass. She’s hardly touched her drink. I take a swig and run a hand through my hair. I know damn well what’s wrong with me.

  I want her. Badly.

  I’m infatuated.

  There, I’ve admitted it to myself. She’s invaded my thoughts and my dreams since I laid eyes on her.

  I fucking burn for her.

  But in all my fantasies, she shares my desire. I want her, yes. But I want her wet and willing—I want her to want me, too. I know I could seduce her, but right now if she were to say yes, she’d be doing so for all the wrong reasons.

  Besides, I promised her that I wouldn’t touch her unless she wanted me.

  I close my eyes.

  When did I acquire a conscience?

  Deep down I know the answer. I am hamstrung by our inequality.

  She has nothing.

  I have everything.

  And if I take advantage of her, what would that make me? No better than those fuckers with the Eastern European accents. I’ve brought her to Cornwall because I want to protect her from them—and now I have to protect her from myself.

  Fuck.

  This is uncharted territory.

  While I down the remaining beer, I wonder what’s happening at the Hall. I decide that I can find out tomorrow, and I’ll also let Oliver know where I am. I doubt there’s anything urgent to deal with and I’m sure he’ll be in touch if there is. I can work down here. I have my phone, though I wish I’d brought my laptop.

  Right now I need some sleep.

  Leaving the empty glass and t
he beer bottle on the counter, I switch off the lights and head upstairs. I pause outside her bedroom door and listen.

  Shit!

  She’s crying.

  I’ve had my fill of wailing women over the last four weeks: Maryanne, Caroline, Danny, Jessie. An image of Kit’s lifeless body comes to mind, and my own grief rises raw and unexpected.

  Kit. Fuck. Why?

  Suddenly I’m bone tired. I contemplate leaving her to cry but hesitate outside her door as the sound pierces my mourning heart. I can’t leave her sobbing. Sighing, I steel myself, then knock gently on the door and let myself in.

  She’s crumpled on the floor, her head in her hands, right where I left her. Her grief is a reflection of my own.

  “Alessia. Oh, no!” I exclaim, and scoop her into my arms. “Hush, now,” I murmur, my voice cracking. I sit down on the bed, cradle her in my lap, and bury my face in her hair. Closing my eyes, I inhale her sweet scent and tighten my arms, holding her and rocking gently.

  “I’ve got you,” I whisper past the knot that constricts my throat. I couldn’t rescue my brother from the demons that drove him out on his motorbike into an icy night, but I can help this beautiful girl, this beautiful, brave girl. Her sobbing ceases, and she splays her hand over my racing heart and holds it there, I don’t know for how long. Finally she quiets and relaxes against me.

  She’s fallen asleep.

  In my arms.

  In the safety of my arms.

  What a privilege this is—to hold a sleeping beauty.

  I press a soft kiss in her hair and shift her onto the bed, then cover her with the throw. Her plait snakes across the pillow, and for a moment I consider untying it and freeing her hair, but she mumbles something unintelligible in her own language, and I don’t want to wake her. I wonder once more if I haunt her dreams like she haunts mine. “Sleep, beautiful,” I whisper, and switch off the light before I step onto the landing. I close her door, anxious that the glare shouldn’t wake her, then turn out the hall light and stride into my bedroom, leaving my door ajar.