The Mister

by James, E L

  Just in case she needs me…

  I press the electronic closer for the blinds, which descend over the French windows facing the sea. In the walk-in wardrobe, I strip off my clothes and find a pair of pajamas that Danny has brought over from the main house and slip on the bottoms. In London I rarely wear pajamas, but in Cornwall, with all the staff present, I have no choice. Leaving my clothes in a heap on the floor, I head into the bedroom and climb into bed. I turn off the bedside lamp and stare into the inky darkness.

  Tomorrow will be a better day. Tomorrow I’ll have the lovely Alessia Demachi to myself. I lie in bed questioning my judgment. I’ve taken Alessia away from all that she knows. She’s destitute, friendless, and totally alone. Well, she has me, and I have to behave myself. “You’re going soft in your old age,” I mutter, and fall into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

  It’s the shrill sound of her scream that wakes me.

  Chapter Twelve

  It takes me a couple of seconds to orient myself, and she screams again.

  Fuck.

  Alessia.

  I fly out of bed as adrenaline fuels my body, bringing all my senses to attention. Punching the lights on in the hall, I burst into her room. Alessia is sitting up in her bed. Her head whips around at the sound and light from the hallway, her eyes wild with terror.

  She opens her mouth to scream again.

  “Alessia, it’s me, Maxim.”

  Her words rush out in a torrent: “Ndihmë. Errësirë. Shumë errësirë. Shumë errësirë!”

  What?

  I sit down beside her on the bed, and she launches herself at me, nearly knocking me over and wrapping her arms around my neck.

  “Hey,” I soothe her once I’ve regained my balance, and I hold her, stroking her hair.

  “Errësirë. Shumë errësirë. Shumë errësirë,” she whispers over and over as she clings to me, trembling like a newborn foal.

  “English. In English.”

  “The dark,” she whispers against my neck. “I hate the dark. It is so dark here.”

  Oh, thank fuck.

  I’d imagined all manner of horrors and was prepared to fight any number of monsters, but I relax at her words. Keeping one arm around her, I lean over and switch on the bedside light.

  “That better?” I ask, but she doesn’t let go. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you,” I repeat several times.

  After a few minutes, her trembling ceases and her body relaxes. She sits back, and her eyes meet mine.

  “I am sorry,” she whispers.

  “Hush. Don’t worry. I’m here.”

  She glances down at my chest, and a slow flush pinks her cheeks.

  “Yeah, I normally sleep naked. Count yourself lucky I put these on,” I quip.

  Her mouth softens. “I know,” she says, and peeks up at me through her long lashes.

  “You know?”

  “Yes. You sleep naked.”

  “You’ve seen me?”

  “Yes.” Her smile is unexpected.

  “Well, I’m not sure how I feel about that.” I’m grateful that she’s back from whatever terror she was facing in the dark, but she continues to glance around the room anxiously.

  “I am sorry. I did not mean to wake you,” she says. “I was frightened.”

  “Was it a nightmare?”

  She nods. “And when I open my eyes and it is…it is so dark—” She shivers. “I did not know if I was dreaming or awake.”

  “I think that would make anyone scream. It’s not like London here. There’s no light pollution in Trevethick. The dark here is…dark.”

  “Yes. Like the—” She stops and cringes in revulsion.

  “Like?” I whisper. The teasing amusement in her eyes has vanished, replaced by a harrowed, strained expression. Turning her face away, she stares down at her lap.

  I rub her back when I’m met with her silence. “Tell me,” I prompt.

  “In the—how do you say—kamion…Truck. In the truck,” she says, suddenly inspired.

  I swallow. “Truck?”

  “Yes. That brought us to England. It was metal. Like a box. And dark. And cold. And the smell…” Her words are barely audible.

  “Fuck,” I say under my breath, and fold her in my arms again. She seems a little more reluctant to hug me this time, probably because I’m shirtless but I’m not going to leave her to face these gruesome nightmares on her own. In one swift movement, I stand, cradling her against my chest.

  She gasps in surprise.

  “I think you should sleep with me.” And without waiting for a response, I carry her into my room, flick on the lights, and deposit her on the floor beside the walk-in wardrobe. Inside I find the pajama shirt and hand it to her. I point to the en suite. “You can go and change in there. You can’t be comfortable sleeping in your jeans and that school sweater.” I grimace at her green woolen pullover.

  She blinks rapidly.

  Shit. Perhaps I’ve really overstepped the mark.

  And suddenly I feel a little self-conscious. “Unless of course you’d rather sleep alone.”

  “I have never slept with a man,” she whispers.

  Oh.

  “I won’t touch you. This is just sleep—so the next time you scream, I’ll be right there.”

  Of course, I’d like to make her scream in a different way.

  Alessia hesitates, looking from me to the bed, and her lips purse with what I think is resolve. “I want to sleep here, with you,” she whispers and she marches into the en suite, not shutting the door until she’s found the light switch.

  Feeling relieved, I stare at the closed bathroom door.

  At twenty-three she’s never slept with a man?

  I’m not going to think about that right now. It’s after three in the morning, and I’m tired.

  * * *

  Alessia gazes at her pale face in the mirror. Wide eyes with dark circles beneath them reflect back at her. Taking a deep breath, she shakes off the remnants of her nightmare: she’d been back in the container, but this time without the other girls.

  She was alone.

  In the dark.

  In the cold.

  With that smell.

  She shivers and strips off her clothes. She’d forgotten where she was until he appeared.

  Mister Maxim. Saving her again.

  Her own Skënderbeu…Albania’s hero.

  He’s making a habit of this.

  And she’s going to sleep with him.

  He’ll keep her nightmares at bay.

  If her father found out, he would kill her. And her mother…she visualizes her mother fainting at the news that Alessia is sleeping with a man. A man who is not her husband.

  Don’t think about Baba and Mama.

  Her dear, dear mother had sent Alessia to England thinking she was saving her.

  She was wrong. So wrong.

  Oh, Mama.

  For now she is safe with Mister Maxim. She struggles into the pj top, which is too big. She undoes her braid, shakes out her hair, then tries to tame it with her fingers but gives up. Gathering her clothes under one arm, she opens the door.

  Mister Maxim’s room is larger and airier than the other bedroom. It’s also off-white, but here the furniture is polished wood, matching the sleigh bed that dominates the room. He is standing on the far side of the bed, and his eyes widen as he studies her. “There you are,” he says, his voice husky. “I was wondering if I should send a search party.”

  Her gaze drifts from his startling green eyes to the tattoo on his arm. She has only glimpsed parts of it before, but even from across the room she can see the design.

  A two-headed eagle.

  Albania.

  “What?” He follows her stare and looks down at his tattoo. “Oh. Th
is,” he says. “It’s a folly of youth.” He sounds a little embarrassed, and he frowns, seemingly puzzled by her keen interest. She can’t take her eyes off the ink as she walks toward him. He raises his elbow so she can have a better look.

  Inscribed across his biceps is a black shield bearing the image of an ivory two-headed eagle hovering over five yellow circles that are in the shape of an inverted V. Alessia places her clothes on the footstool at the end of the bed and raises her hand to touch his arm, glancing at Maxim for permission.

  * * *

  I hold my breath as she traces the outline of my tattoo, her finger skirting across my skin, her light touch echoing through my body, toward my groin, and I suppress a groan.

  “This is the symbol for my country,” she whispers. “The two-headed eagle is on the Albanian flag.”

  What are the odds?

  I grit my teeth. I’m not sure how long I can bear her touch without reciprocating.

  “But not these yellow circles,” she adds.

  “There’re called bezants.” I sound really hoarse.

  “Bezant.”

  “Yes. It represents a coin.”

  “In Albanian, we have the same word. Why do you have this tattoo? What does it mean?” Alluring eyes peer up at me.

  What can I say?

  This is the shield from my family’s coat of arms.

  I don’t want to explain my family’s heraldry at three o’clock in the morning. And the truth is, I had the tattoo done to piss off my mother. She hates them…but of the family coat of arms? How could she complain?

  “Like I said, a youthful folly.” My eyes stray from her eyes to her lips. I swallow. “It’s too late to discuss this now. Let’s sleep.” I toss back the quilt on the bed and step aside so that she can climb in. She obliges, revealing long, slender legs beneath the pajama shirt that is way too big for her.

  This is torture.

  “What is this word ‘folly’?” she asks as I walk around the bed. She’s propped herself up on her elbow, and her glorious dark hair falls in a riot of loose waves over her shoulders, past the contour of her breasts, and onto the bedding. She looks gorgeous, and I’m going to have to keep my hands off her.

  “ ‘Folly’ in this case means a foolish action,” I say as I join her in bed. I almost snort at the irony of my word definition.

  If sleeping next to this beautiful girl isn’t folly, I don’t know what is.

  “Folly,” she whispers as she lays her head on the pillow. I dim the bedside light so it glows in the darkness, but I don’t switch it off, just in case she wakes again.

  “Yes. Folly.” I lie down and close my eyes. “Go to sleep.”

  “Good night,” she whispers, her voice soft and sweet. “And thank you.”

  I groan. This is going to be torture. I turn on my side, away from her, and start counting sheep.

  I’m lying on the lawn near the towering stone wall that surrounds the kitchen garden at Tresyllian Hall.

  The summer sun warms my skin.

  The scent from the lavender that rings the lawn and the sweet fragrance of the roses that climb the wall waft over me.

  I’m warm.

  I’m happy.

  I’m home.

  A girlish laugh catches my attention.

  I turn my head, drawn to the sound, but I’m blinded by the sun and can see her only in outline. Her long, raven hair blows in the breeze, and she’s swathed in a translucent blue housecoat. It billows out around her slim silhouetted figure.

  Alessia.

  The scent of the flowers intensifies, and I close my eyes to inhale their sweet, intoxicating perfume.

  When I open them, she’s gone.

  * * *

  I wake with a start. Morning is bleeding through the cracks between the blinds. Alessia has trespassed onto my side of the bed, and she’s nestled under my arm, her hand balled in a fist on my abdomen, her head on my chest. Her leg intertwined with mine.

  She is all over me.

  And fast asleep.

  And my cock is wide awake and rock hard.

  “Oh, God,” I whisper, and brush my nose against her hair.

  Lavender and roses.

  Intoxicating.

  My heart rate flips into overdrive as I make a mental list of all the possibilities this scenario presents: Alessia in my arms. Ready. Waiting. She is so tantalizing, so close…too close. If I roll over, she’ll be on her back, and I can finally bury myself in her. I stare up at the ceiling, praying for self-control. I know if I move, she’ll wake, so I torture myself some more and lie still, enjoying the sweet, sweet agony of having her sprawled all over me. I gather a lock of her hair between my fingers, surprised by how soft and silky it feels. She stirs, her fisted hand flexes, and her fingers splay out on my belly, tickling the beginning of my pubic hair.

  Fuck!

  I’m so hard and want nothing more than to grab her hand and wrap it around my erection. I’ll probably explode if I do.

  “Mmm,” she murmurs. Her eyelids flicker open, and she looks dreamily up at me.

  “Good morning, Alessia.” I’m breathless.

  She gasps and scrambles to put some space between us.

  “I was enjoying your visit to my side of the bed,” I tease.

  She pulls the covers up to her chin, her cheeks rosy, her smile shy. “Good morning,” she says.

  “Sleep well?” I ask as I roll onto my side to face her.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Hungry?” I know I am. And not for food.

  She nods.

  “Do you really mean yes?”

  She frowns.

  “You said in the car yesterday that in Albania it’s the opposite.”

  “You remembered.” She sounds pleased and surprised.

  “I remember everything you say.” I want to tell her that she looks very lovely this morning. But I refrain. I’m behaving.

  “I like sleeping with you,” she says, confounding me.

  “Well, that makes two of us.”

  “I did not have bad dreams.”

  “Good. Me neither.”

  She laughs, and I try to recall the dream that woke me. All I know is that she was part of it. As usual. “I dreamt about you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure it was not a nightmare?” she teases.

  I grin. “Quite sure.”

  She smiles. She has a bewitching smile. Perfect white teeth. Pink lips that are parted possibly in invitation. “You look very desirable.” The words come out of my mouth in an unguarded moment. Her deep brown eyes dilate, captivating me.

  “Desirable?” Her breath catches.

  “Yes.”

  The silence stretches between us as we gaze at each other.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she whispers.

  I close my eyes and swallow while her words from last night echo in my head.

  I have never slept with a man.

  “You’re a virgin?” I whisper, and open my eyes to study her face.

  She blushes. “Yes.”

  Her simple affirmation is like an ice bath to my libido. I’ve only slept with one virgin, and that was Caroline. It was my first time, too, and it was a disaster that nearly got us expelled from school. After that my father took me to a high-class brothel in Bloomsbury.

  If you’re going to start fucking girls, Maxim, you’d better learn how to fuck.

  I was fifteen, and Caroline moved on….

  Until Kit’s death.

  Bloody hell.

  Alessia’s a virgin at twenty-three? Of course she is. What did I expect? She’s different from every woman I’ve ever known. And she’s looking at me all big eyes and expectation. I wonder again at the folly of bringi
ng her here.

  Alessia frowns, anxiety etched on her face.

  Shit.

  Reaching forward, I brush my thumb against her pouty bottom lip. She inhales sharply. “I want you, Alessia. Very much. But I want you to want me, too. I think we need to get to know each other before we take whatever this is any further.”

  There. That was the grown-up response. Yes?

  “Okay,” she whispers, but she looks uncertain, and possibly a little disappointed.

  What does she expect of me?

  And I know I need to put some distance between us to think about this. Here in my bed she’s a distraction, a pouting, soft-lipped, and beautiful distraction. I sit up and cup her face in my hands. “Let’s just enjoy this holiday,” I murmur, and kiss her, and clamber out of bed.

  Now is not the time.

  It’s not fair to her.

  And it’s not fair to me.

  “Are you leaving?” Alessia asks as she sits up in bed. Her hair tumbles down around her small frame like a veil. Her eyes are round with concern; she looks effortlessly sexy, swamped in my pajama shirt.

  “I’m going to grab a shower, then cook us breakfast.”

  “You can cook?”

  I laugh at her shock. “Yeah. Well, I can cook bacon and eggs.” I give her a sheepish smile and stride into the bathroom.

  * * *

  Bugger.

  More self-abuse in the shower.

  Water streams over my body, and with one hand spread on the marble tiles supporting me, I come quickly, thinking of her hand on my stomach and her hand wrapped around my dick.

  A virgin.

  I frown. Why am I making such a big deal of this? At least she hasn’t been brutalized by those fuckers. Anger flares in my gut as I think of the men coming after her. She’s safe here in Cornwall. So that’s something.

  Perhaps she’s religious. She did say her grandmother was a missionary, and she wears a gold cross around her neck. Or maybe premarital sex is a taboo in Albania. I have no idea. I wash my hair and my body with the soap Danny left for me.