“A Soho Mule.”
“Good choice.”
I signal the waiter and order.
“You’ve been a recluse this weekend,” Caroline says.
“I’ve been busy.”
“On your own.”
“Yes,” I say, and it feels good not to lie.
“What is it, Maxim?”
“What do you mean?” I give her a level I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about stare.
“Have you met someone?” she asks.
What the hell!
I blink as an image of Alessia stretching over my piano and wearing nothing but pink panties comes to mind.
“You have!” Caroline says, startled.
I shift in my seat and shake my head. “No.” My denial is emphatic.
Caroline raises a brow. “You’re lying.”
Fuck. Not emphatic enough.
“How can you tell?” I ask, as ever daunted by her ability to cut through my bullshit.
“I couldn’t, but you always cave so easily. Tell me.”
Damn!
“There’s nothing to tell. I spent the weekend alone.”
“That speaks volumes in itself.”
“Caro, we’re each dealing with Kit’s absence in our own way.”
“And…what are you not telling me?”
I sigh. “Do you really want me to talk about this?”
“Yes,” she says, and I notice the wicked gleam in her eye, reminding me that the real Caroline is not far away.
“There is someone. But she doesn’t know I exist.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Seriously. It’s nothing. Just a flight of fancy.”
Caroline frowns. “This is not like you. You’re never distracted by one of your, um…conquests.”
I can’t help my hollow laugh. “She’s not a conquest—not by any stretch of my imagination.”
She can barely look at me!
The waiter arrives with our drinks.
“When did you last eat?” I ask.
Caroline shrugs, and I shake my head. “You must be driving Mrs. Blake crazy. Let’s eat. May we have the menu?” I ask the waiter, who nods and scuttles away.
I raise my glass to hers. “To absent loved ones.” I hope we can change the subject.
“To Kit,” she whispers, and we smile sadly at each other, bonded by our love for the same man.
* * *
It is two o’clock in the morning when we return, inebriated, to my flat. Caroline is reluctant to go home. I don’t want to go. It’s not home without Kit.
I cannot argue with her.
We both stagger into the hallway, and I enter the code into the alarm, silencing the incessant beeping.
“Do you have any blow?” Caroline slurs.
“No. Not today.”
“What have you got to drink?”
“I think you’ve had enough.”
She gives me a crooked, drunken smile. “Are you taking care of me?”
“I’ll always take care of you, Caro. You know that.”
“Then take me to bed, Maxim.” She throws her arms around my neck, her face raised with blurry expectation and her unfocused eyes intent on my mouth.
Fuck. I grab her shoulders to hold her back. “No. I’ll put you to bed.”
“What do you mean?” Caroline scowls.
“You’re intoxicated.”
“And?”
“Caroline. This has to stop.” I kiss her forehead.
“Why?”
“You know why.”
Her face crumples, and tears well in her eyes as she staggers out of my hold.
I groan. “Don’t. Please don’t cry.” I pull her back into my embrace. “We can’t do this anymore.”
Since when have scruples stopped me fucking?
I was supposed to go out tonight and find a willing hot woman.
“Is this because you’ve met someone?”
“No.”
Yes.
Maybe.
I don’t know.
“Come on, I’ll put you to bed.” I curl my arm around her shoulders and lead her into my seldom-used spare bedroom.
* * *
At some point in the night, the mattress dips as Caroline climbs in beside me. Relieved that I remembered to put on pajama bottoms, I pull her into my arms.
“Maxim,” she whispers, and I hear the invitation in her voice.
“Go to sleep,” I grumble, and close my eyes.
It doesn’t matter to me that she was my brother’s wife. She’s my best friend and the woman who knows me best. She’s also a warm body and a comfort, and I’m grieving, too—but I’m not going to fuck her again.
No. That’s done.
She rests her head on my chest, and I kiss her hair and promptly fall asleep.
Chapter Six
Alessia cannot contain her excitement. She clutches the umbrella and enters his apartment. Today she’s pleased to note that the alarm doesn’t sound.
He’s here!
Last night in her narrow bed, she’d dreamed of him again—malachite-green eyes, shining smile, and that expressive face—engrossed in his music as he played the piano. She’d woken breathless and full of desire. And the last time she’d seen him, he’d been kind enough to lend her his umbrella, and it had kept her dry on the way home and all day yesterday. She’d not received much kindness since she came to London, except from Magda, of course, so his gesture meant that much more. Pulling off her boots and leaving the umbrella in the hall, she hurries through to the kitchen. She is excited to see him.
She stops on the threshold.
Oh, no!
A blond woman wearing nothing but a man’s shirt, his shirt, is standing in the kitchen making coffee. She looks up and gives Alessia a polite but warm smile. Alessia recovers her capacity to move and walks through the kitchen toward the laundry room with her head bowed, in shock.
“Good morning,” the woman says. She looks as though she’s just climbed out of bed.
His bed?
“Good morning, missus,” Alessia mumbles as she walks past her. Once in the laundry room, she stands for a moment to process this crushing turn of events.
Who is this woman with big blue eyes?
Why is she wearing his shirt? A shirt Alessia had ironed for him only last week.
This woman is with him. She must be. Why else is she wandering around wearing his shirt? She must know him intimately.
Intimately.
Of course he has someone. Someone beautiful.
Like him.
Alessia’s dreams lie in shards at her feet. Her face clouds as disappointment constricts her heart. Sighing, she removes her hat, gloves, and anorak and slips on her housecoat.
What did she expect? He will never be interested in her—she is just his cleaner. Why would he want her?
The small bubble of joy she’d felt this morning—the first in a long time—has burst. She puts on her sneakers and sets up the ironing board. Her earlier excitement is a distant memory as she’s forced to face reality. From the dryer she fishes out his clean laundry, transferring it into the ironing basket. This is her place. This is what she was raised to do: keep house and look after a man.
She can still admire him from afar as she’s done since she saw him naked on his bed. There is nothing to stop her from doing that.
Feeling discouraged, she exhales as she fills the iron with more water.
Alessia stands in the doorway. A vision in blue.
Slowly she removes her scarf and lets her plait swing free.
Shake your hair out for me.
She smiles.