Could this be any more illicit? She’s so close but so unattainable. She moves to plump the black scatter cushions on the couch, and her housecoat swings forward and stretches out across her backside, betraying the pink underwear beneath.
My breathing shallows, and I have to suppress a groan.
I’m a fucking pervert.
She finishes with the sofa, and her eyes stray toward me. I endeavor to look engrossed in the spreadsheet in my hand while the hairs on the back of my neck rise to attention. Taking the can of polish, she sprays some onto the cloth she’s holding and heads to the piano. With another quick, anxious glance at me, she begins the slow process of buffing it to a brilliant shine. She stretches across it, the housecoat rising to above the backs of her knees.
Oh, God!
With a deliberate and even pace, she works her way around the piano, buffing and polishing, her breathing becoming faster and harder with the exertion. It’s agonizing. I close my eyes and imagine how I could elicit the same response from her.
Shit. I cross my legs to hide my body’s natural reaction. This is getting farcical. She’s just cleaning my fucking piano.
She continues to dust the keyboard, though the keys make no sound. Her eyes shoot to me again, and I quickly look at the figures on the spreadsheet, which swim on the page, making no sense. When I dare to peer up at her, she’s bending down, her face pensive, and she seems to be appraising the manuscript that sits on the music rest. She’s looking at my composition, and her brow creases as if she’s concentrating hard.
Can she read music?
Is she reading my score?
She looks up and meets my gaze. Her eyes widen with embarrassment, and her tongue escapes from her mouth to lick her upper lip as a rosy flush stains her cheeks.
Fuck.
Averting her eyes, she bobs down behind the piano, presumably to dust the legs or the stool.
I cannot bear it.
My phone rings, startling me. It’s Oliver.
“Hi,” I say into the phone, my voice hoarse, and I’ve never been so grateful for the interruption. I have to get out of the drawing room.
Hell, I promised myself that I wouldn’t let her chase me out again.
“Trevethick?”
“Yes. Oliver. What is it?”
“We have a planning issue which I think is going to need your attention.”
I stalk into the hallway as Oliver drones on about soffits and load-bearing walls within the Mayfair development.
* * *
When he leaves the room, it’s as if a storm has passed overhead to wreak havoc elsewhere—in the hallway, perhaps. Alessia breathes a sigh of relief, grateful that he’s gone. She hears him on the phone, his voice deep but melodious. She doesn’t think she’s ever been so acutely aware of someone else before.
She must stop thinking about him and concentrate on cleaning! She finishes dusting the piano, though she can’t shake the uncanny feeling that he’d been watching her while she cleaned.
No. That’s impossible.
Why would he be watching me?
Maybe he’s checking on her cleaning capabilities like Mrs. Kingsbury. Alessia smiles at the silly idea and realizes she feels a great deal warmer than she did when she arrived. She isn’t sure if the heat is within the room or within herself.
Warmed by his presence.
Her ludicrous train of thought elicits another smile. As he’s out of the room, she seizes the opportunity to run and fetch the vacuum cleaner. The Mister is at the end of the hall leaning against the wall, all long legs and restless foot-tapping. He is talking into the phone in a low tone, but he watches her as she goes into the kitchen. She carries the vacuum cleaner into the living room to find him back at his desk but still talking on the phone. He rises when he sees her. “Hold on a minute, Oliver. Go ahead,” he says to her, and he waves in the direction of the room, granting Alessia permission to vacuum as he leaves once more. He’s undone the black hoodie he’s wearing. Underneath she sees a gray V-neck T-shirt that has a black winged coronet and LA 1781 written on it. She flushes as she notices a little chest hair peeking through the top of the V. In her mind she hears her mother’s voice scolding her in that tone she has: Alessia! What are you doing?
I am looking at a man, Mama.
A man I find attractive.
A man who makes my blood run hotter.
She imagines her mother’s scandalized expression, and it makes her smile.
Oh, Mama, it’s so different here in England. Men. Women. How they behave. Their interaction.
Alessia’s mind goes to a darker place. To him.
No. Do not think of that man.
She’s safe now, here in London with the Mister. And she must concentrate on keeping her job.
The vacuum cleaner is a make called Henry. Painted on his red cylinder are two big eyes and a smile. Whenever she sees Henry, she can’t help but smile. She plugs him into the wall and begins to vacuum the rug and the wooden floor. Fifteen minutes later she’s finished.
The Mister is not in the hallway as she pulls Henry back to his sleeping place in the laundry room cupboard. Alessia gives him a friendly pat before shutting the cupboard door and heading into the kitchen.
“Hi,” the Mister says as he comes into the kitchen. “I have to go out. Your money is on the console table. You can lock up and set the alarm?”
She nods, so blinded by his broad smile that she has to stare down at the floor. But inside her, joy unfurls like a morning glory because he’s leaving and she’ll be able to play the piano.
He hesitates for a moment before holding out a large black umbrella.
“You’re welcome to borrow this. It’s still raining cats and dogs outside.”
Cats and dogs?
Alessia is stunned. She glances quickly at his face, and her heart skips a beat at his warm smile and this generous gesture. She takes it from him. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“You’re welcome. Until Wednesday, Alessia,” he says, and he leaves her alone in the kitchen. A few moments later, she hears the front door close.
Alessia stares at the umbrella. It’s old-fashioned, with a wooden handle and a gold collar. It is exactly what she needs. Marveling at the Mister’s generosity, she wanders into the living room and sits down at the piano. She props the umbrella up against the end of the keyboard and in honor of the terrible weather begins to play Chopin’s “Raindrop” Prelude.
* * *
I bask and glow in the wake of Alessia’s whispered “Thank you.” I am ridiculously pleased with myself. I’m finally able to help her with this small gesture. I’m not accustomed to doing good deeds—though I probably have an ulterior motive for my kindness, a motive I don’t want to analyze too deeply right now, as it might confirm I’m the shallow fucking bastard I think I am. Still, I feel good about this gesture, and it’s a novel feeling.
With renewed energy I bypass the lift and fly down the main staircase to the ground floor. I’m reluctant to leave, but I have a meeting with Oliver and various contractors at the Mayfair development. Glancing down at my clothes, I hope they don’t expect me to arrive in a suit. That’s just not my style.
No. That was Kit’s thing, and he had a wardrobe full of bespoke Savile Row suits to prove it.
Outside, I dodge the raindrops and hail a cab.
* * *
“I think that went well,” says Oliver. I nod as we walk through the new limestone atrium of one of the rebuilt mansion blocks. Workmen in high-vis jackets and yellow hard hats go about their business around us as we make our way to the boarded front of the building. The dust in the air claws at my throat. I need a drink.
“You’ve got a flair for this, Trevethick. I think the contractor liked your suggestions.”
“Oliver. It’s Maxim. Please use my name. You used to. B
efore.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“For fuck’s sake.”
“Maxim.” Oliver gives me a brief smile. “We’ll need to get an interior designer to source everything for the show apartment, probably within the next month. I’ve compiled a list of three that Kit liked to use.”
Kit? Kit was Kit. Why can’t I be Maxim?
“Caroline might be a good idea,” I say.
“Oh? Lady Trevethick?”
“My mother suggested her.”