The Mister

by James, E L

  Her eyelashes flutter over her dark, dark eyes, but she gives nothing away.

  Shit.

  “You’re a bright, talented woman, Alessia. And you’re free. Free to make your own choices.”

  “But I’m not.”

  “You are here. I know you’re from a different culture, and I know we’re not economic equals, but that’s just an accident of birth….We are equals in every other way. I’ve fucked up. I should have told you, and I’m sorry, deeply sorry. But I don’t want you to go, I want you to stay. Please.”

  Her fathomless eyes strip me bare as she studies my face, and then she turns her attention to the carved eagle.

  Why is she avoiding me? What is she thinking?

  Is it the trauma she’s just been through?

  Or is it because those fuckers are out of the picture, so she no longer needs me?

  Shit. Maybe that’s the reason.

  “Look, I can’t keep you here if you want to leave. Magda is moving to Canada. So where you’ll go, I don’t know. If nothing else, stay until you know where. But please don’t go. Stay. With me.”

  She can’t run…she can’t.

  Forgive me! Please.

  I hold my breath. Waiting.

  It’s excruciating. I’m the defendant in the dock waiting for the verdict.

  She turns her tearstained face to me. “You are not ashamed of me?”

  Ashamed? No!

  I can bear it no longer. I skim the back of my index finger across her cheek, capturing a tear. “No. No. Of course not. I…I…I’ve fallen in love with you.”

  Her lips part, and I hear her just-audible gasp.

  Shit. Am I too late?

  Her eyes glisten with fresh tears, and my heart clenches with a new and intimidating sensation. Perhaps she’ll reject me. My anxiety level ratchets up several notches, and I’ve never felt as vulnerable as I do now.

  What’s the verdict, Alessia?

  I open my arms, and she looks from my hands to my face. Her expression uncertain. It’s killing me. She bites her lower lip and takes one small hesitant step, and she’s in my embrace. I wrap my arms around her and press her to my chest. I never want to let her go. Closing my eyes, I bury my nose in her hair and inhale her sweet scent. “My love,” I whisper.

  She shudders and starts to sob.

  “I know. I know. I’ve got you. You’ve had a terrible fright. I’m sorry I left you on your own. It was a stupid thing to do. Forgive me. But those arseholes are in police custody. They’re gone. They won’t harm you again. I’ve got you.” Her arms slide around me, and she grabs my coat at the back. She holds me as she weeps.

  “I should have told you, Alessia. I’m sorry.”

  We stand for seconds, minutes, I don’t know. Jensen and Healey give up on us and wander down the stairs.

  “You can cry on me anytime,” I tease. She sniffles, and I tip her chin up and stare down into beautiful, red-rimmed eyes. “I thought…oh, God, I thought if they got their hands on you…I’d never see you again.”

  Swallowing, she gives me a weak smile.

  “And you must know,” I continue, “I’d be honored to call you mine. I need you.” And loosening my hold, I gently caress her face, avoiding the slight red mark on her right cheek. The sight of her bruise fills me with anger, but, taking great care not to touch it, I smooth away her tears with my thumbs. She places her hand on my chest. Through my shirt I feel the warmth. It spreads. Everywhere.

  Alessia clears her throat. “I was so scared. I thought I’d never see you again. But my biggest…um, sorrow…um, regret,” she whispers, “was that…was that I never told you that I love you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Joy bursts like a million fireworks within me from head to foot. Its intensity leaves me breathless. I can’t quite believe it. “You do?”

  “Yes,” Alessia whispers with a timid smile.

  “Since when?”

  She pauses and lifts a shoulder in a coy shrug. “Since you gave me the umbrella.”

  I beam at her. “I felt so good about that. Your wet footprints were all over my hall. So…are you saying you’ll stay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m so very glad to hear that, my love.” I brush her bottom lip with my thumb and lean down to kiss her. I place my lips on hers, gently, but she ignites around me, her fervor taking me by surprise. Her lips and tongue are greedy, urgent, her hands are in my hair, tugging and twisting. She wants more. So much more. I groan as my body comes alive, and I deepen the kiss, taking everything she has to offer. There’s a desperate quality to her demanding mouth. She’s needy. And I want to be the one to fulfill her need. My hands move into her hair, holding her still, steadying her, slowing our pace. I want to take her, here, now, on the landing.

  Alessia.

  My arousal is instant.

  I want her.

  I need her.

  I love her.

  But…she’s been through hell. She winces when I run my hand down her side. And her reaction brings me to my senses.

  “No…” I whisper, and she pulls back, giving me a carnal but bewildered and disappointed look.

  “You’re hurt,” I explain.

  “I’m okay.” She’s breathless, and she cranes her neck to kiss me again.

  “Let’s just take a moment,” I whisper, and I rest my forehead on hers. “You’ve had a horrible morning.” She’s extremely emotional, and her ardor may be a direct reaction to being roughed up by those arseholes.

  The thought is sobering.

  Or maybe it’s because she loves me.

  I like that idea better.

  We stand forehead to forehead as we each catch our breath.

  She strokes my cheek, then tilts her head to one side, and a hint of a smile plays on her lips. “You are the Earl of Trevethick?” she teases. “When were you going to tell me?” There’s a mischievous twinkle in her eye, and I laugh out loud, knowing that she’s echoing my question from the other night.

  “I’m telling you now.”

  She grins and taps her lip with her finger. I turn and wave theatrically to the portrait that dates from 1667. “May I introduce Edward, the first Earl of Trevethick. And that gentleman”—I point to the other painting with my thumb—“that’s my father, the eleventh earl. He was a farmer and a photographer, too. And he was an ardent Chelsea supporter, so I’m not sure what he would have made of your Arsenal top.”

  Alessia gives me a puzzled look.

  “They are rival London football teams.”

  “Oh, no.” She laughs. “Where is your portrait?”

  “I don’t have one. I haven’t been the earl for very long. My older brother, Kit. He was the real earl. But he never got around to having his portrait painted.”

  “Your brother who died?”

  “Yes. The title and everything that comes with it were his responsibility until a few weeks ago. I wasn’t meant for the role, for all…this.” I tilt my head toward the suits of armor. “Running this place—this museum—it’s all new to me.”

  “Is that why you didn’t tell me?” Alessia asks.

  “It’s one of the reasons. I think part of me is in denial. All this, and the other estates, it’s a lot of responsibility, and I’ve not been trained for it.”

  Whereas Kit was….

  This conversation is getting too deep and too close to home. I continue with a slight smile. “I’m very lucky. I’ve never really had to work before, and now all this is mine. And I have to maintain it for the next generation. It’s my duty.” I give her an apologetic shrug. “This is who I am. And now you know. And I’m glad you’ve decided to stay.”

  “My lord?” Danny calls up from below.

  * * *
/>   Maxim’s shoulders sag a little. Alessia senses that he wants to be left alone. “Yes, Danny?” he answers.

  “The doctor is here to see Alessia.”

  Maxim turns an anxious gaze to her. “Doctor?”

  “I’m okay,” Alessia says, hesitantly.

  He frowns. “Send her up to the blue room.”

  “It’s not Dr. Carter, it’s Dr. Conway, sir. I’ll send him up right away, my lord.”

  “Thank you,” Maxim calls down to Danny, and he takes Alessia’s hand. “What did that bastard do to you?”

  Alessia can’t look him in the eye. She feels ashamed, ashamed that she’s brought this horror into Maxim’s life. “He kicked me,” she whispers. “Danny wanted the doctor to see this.” She lifts the side of her Arsenal shirt to reveal a vivid red mark that’s the size of a woman’s fist.

  “Fuck.” Maxim’s expression hardens, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “I should have killed that scum,” he hisses. He takes her hand, and they walk back to the blue room, where an elderly man with a large leather bag is waiting. Alessia is surprised to see that the clothes she’d left on the bed and the floor have been tidied away.

  “Dr. Conway. It’s been a while.” Maxim shakes hands with him. The doctor has wild white hair, a wispy mustache, and a beard to match. His keen blue eyes are the same color as his crooked bow tie. “Have we brought you out of retirement?”

  “My lord, you have. But only for today. Dr. Carter is on holiday. It’s good to see you looking so well.” He places a hand on Maxim’s shoulder, and a look passes between them.

  “And you, Doctor,” Maxim answers, his voice gruff, and Alessia suspects the doctor is checking on Maxim’s well-being following the death of his brother.

  “How’s your mother?”

  “The same.” Maxim’s lips quirk up.

  Dr. Conway’s laugh is deep and gravelly. He turns his attention to Alessia, who tightens her hold on Maxim’s hand. “Good day, my dear. Ernest Conway at your service.” He gives her a little bow.

  “Dr. Conway, this is my girlfriend, Alessia Demachi.”

  Maxim looks at her, his shining eyes full of pride. As he turns back to the doctor, his expression hardens. “She’s been assaulted and was kicked in the side by someone who is now in police custody. Miss Campbell thought it best that a doctor examine her.”

  Miss Campbell?

  “Danny,” he answers her unspoken question. He gives her hand a quick squeeze. “I’ll leave you to it,” he adds.

  “No. Please don’t go,” Alessia blurts out. She does not want to be alone with this strange man.

  Maxim nods in understanding. “Of course, if you’d like me to stay.” He sits down in a small blue armchair, stretching out his long legs. Reassured, Alessia turns her attention to the doctor. His expression is serious. “Assaulted?”

  Alessia nods and feels her face flush with mortification.

  “Would you like me to take a look?” Dr. Conway asks.

  “Okay.”

  “Please sit.”

  The doctor is kind and patient. He runs through several questions before he asks her to lift her shirt, and keeps up a steady stream of chatter while he examines her. His kind manner helps her relax, and she learns that he brought Maxim and his siblings into the world. Alessia glances at Maxim, who gives her a comforting smile.

  Her heart expands.

  Mister Maxim loves her.

  She smiles back at him.

  And he grins.

  The doctor prods Alessia around her stomach and ribs, and the spell between her and Maxim is broken. She winces at Dr. Conway’s touch.

  “There’s no permanent damage. And you’re lucky not to have any cracked ribs. Just take it easy. And try some ibuprofen if it’s painful. Miss Campbell will have some.” Dr. Conway gives her a gentle pat on her arm. “You’ll live,” he says.

  “Thank you,” Alessia says.

  “I should just take a quick photograph of the bruise. The police might need it for their records.”

  “What?” Alessia’s eyes widen.

  “Good idea,” says Maxim.

  “Lord Trevethick, would you mind?” He hands Maxim his phone. “Just the bruise.”

  “Darling, I’ll only photograph the bruise. Nothing else.”

  She nods and lifts her shirt once more, and Maxim takes a few quick snaps.

  “Done.” He hands the phone back to the old man.

  “Thank you,” Dr. Conway replies.

  With a look of relief, Maxim says, “I’ll show you out, Doctor.”

  Alessia quickly rises to her feet and takes Maxim’s hand. He smiles down at her and laces his fingers through hers. “We’ll both see you out.” Maxim gestures to the door, and they follow Dr. Conway into the corridor.

  * * *

  They watch as the doctor drives off in his old car. Maxim has his arm around Alessia’s shoulders, and she’s nestled into his side. It feels…natural. They are standing in the wide hallway at the front of the house. “You know, you can hold me, too,” Maxim says, his tone warm and encouraging. Shyly she snakes an arm around his waist. He grins. “See how well we fit together?” And he kisses the top of her head. “I’ll give you the tour later. Right now I want to show you something.” They turn around, but Alessia stops when she notices the large sculpture above the stone fireplace that dominates the hall. It’s the shield that Maxim has tattooed on his biceps, but it’s more decorative. There are two stags on each side, a knight’s helmet above it, and above that, in a swirl of yellow and black, a small coronet bearing a lion. Beneath the shield there’s a scrolled caption: FIDES VIGILANTIA.

  “My family’s coat of arms,” Maxim explains.

  “And on your arm.” She asks, “What do the words mean?”

  “It’s Latin. ‘Loyalty in vigilance.’ ”

  She looks puzzled, and Maxim shrugs. “Something to do with the first earl and King Charles II. Come.” It seems he doesn’t wish to say any more. He’s buoyant, eager to show her something, and his excitement is infectious. From somewhere deep in the house, the clock that Alessia heard earlier announces the hour, one chime echoing through the Hall. He grins, looking boyish and adorable. She can’t quite believe he’s fallen for her; he’s talented, handsome, kind, wealthy, and he’s saved her from Dante and Ylli once more.

  Hand in hand they walk through a lengthy hallway that’s lined with paintings and the occasional ornate console table laden with statues, busts, and ceramics. They ascend the great staircase where they had their conversation earlier and cross to the other side of the landing from the double doors.

  “I think you might like this,” Maxim says, and he opens the door with a flourish. Alessia walks into a large chamber with wood-paneled walls and an elaborate plaster ceiling. At one end is a bookcase that covers the entire wall, but at the other, bathed in light from a huge mullioned window, is a full-size grand piano, the most ornate piano Alessia has ever seen.

  She gasps and whips her head around to Maxim.

  “Please. Play,” he says.

  Alessia claps her hands and bolts across the wooden floor, the sound of her quick footsteps echoing off the walls.

  She stops a pace away from the piano to take in its majesty. It’s made of a highly polished wood with a rich grain that gleams in the light. The legs are solid and intricately carved with leaves and grapes, the sides inlaid with a complex marquetry of golden ivy leaves. She runs her finger along the cartouche. It’s splendid.

  “She’s old,” Maxim says over Alessia’s shoulder. Lost in wonder, she hadn’t heard him approach. She doesn’t understand why he sounds apologetic.

  “It’s magnificent. I have never seen a piano like this,” she whispers in admiration.

  “It’s American. From the 1870s. My great-great-grandfather married a railroad heires
s from New York. This came here with her.”

  “It’s beautiful. How does it sound?”

  “Let’s find out. Here.” Maxim makes quick work of lifting the top board and using the longer prop to hold it open. “I don’t think you’ll need this, but I thought you might like to see it.” Raising the music rack, he sets it in place. It’s etched in a fine filigree. “Cool, huh?”

  Alessia nods in awe.

  “Sit. Play.”

  Alessia flashes him a delighted grin and pulls the carved piano stool forward. Maxim steps out of her sight line, and she closes her eyes to collect herself. She places her hands on the keys, relishing the feel of the cool ivory beneath her fingertips. She presses down, and the D-flat major chord sings into the room, resonating off the wooden paneling. The tone is rich, like the dark green of a forest fir, but the action is light—surprisingly light for such an old piano. Opening her eyes, she stares down at the keys, wondering how this instrument could have survived for so long and made it through such an epic journey from America. Maxim and his family must cherish their possessions. Shaking her head with incredulity, she places her hands on the keys once more and, not bothering with her warm-up piece, begins to play her favorite Chopin prelude. The notes of the first four bars dance across the room in a verdant spring green—the color of Maxim’s eyes. But as she plays, the colors become darker and more ominous, filling the room with portent and mystery. Consumed by the music, she surrenders herself to each precious note. It drives away her anxiety and her fear. All the horror of the morning fades and then disappears in the dark and emerald greens of Chopin’s remarkable, stirring masterpiece.

  * * *

  I watch, enthralled, as Alessia plays the “Raindrop” Prelude. With her eyes closed, she’s lost in the music, her face expressing every thought and feeling that Chopin evokes in the piece. Her hair flows down her back, glinting like a raven’s wing in the light of the winter sun that streams through the window. She’s captivating. Even in that football shirt.