He is breathtaking.
And her heart is full. Full to the brim.
She loves him.
Yes. She loves him.
She is giddy. Excited. And in love. This is what it should feel like. Joyful. Filling. Free. The realization surges through her like the bracing Cornish wind that whips her hair across her face.
She is in love with Mister Maxim.
All her unarticulated feelings bubble to the surface, and her face erupts into a megawatt smile. His answering smile is dazzling, and for a moment she dares to hope.
Perhaps one day he will feel the same way, too?
She dances over to him and in an unguarded moment launches herself at him, flinging her arms around his neck.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” she exclaims, breathless.
He grins down at her as he holds her close. “It’s my pleasure,” he says.
“It will be!” she quips, and laughs as his eyes widen and his mouth drops open.
She wants him. All of him.
She whirls out of his arms and back into the shallows.
* * *
Good God, she’s tipsy, maybe even a little drunk. And beautiful. I’m infatuated.
Suddenly she slips and falls as a wave crashes over her.
Shit.
Panicked, I race to help. She tries to scramble to her feet and slips again, but when I reach her, she’s laughing. And soaked. I help her up. “I think that’s enough swimming for one day,” I mutter. “It’s freezing. Let’s get you home.” And I take her hand. Alessia gives me a crooked grin and trails after me across the sand toward the path back to the house. Pausing every few steps, she seems reluctant to leave the beach, but she’s still giggling and appears happy enough. I don’t want her catching a chill.
Back in the warmth of the Hideout, I pull her into my arms. “Your giggling is irresistible.” I kiss her quickly, and slip off her soaking coat. Her jeans are sodden, but thankfully the rest of her clothes underneath seem dry. I rub her arms briskly to warm her. “You should go and change.”
“Okay.” Alessia grins and heads toward the stairs. Taking her coat—well, Maryanne’s coat—I hang it up in the hallway over the radiator, where it will dry. I remove my boots and socks, which are also wet, then head into the guest cloakroom.
When I come out, she’s disappeared and I assume she’s gone upstairs to find a dry pair of jeans. I sit down on one of the kitchen barstools and call Danny to arrange supper.
Next I call Tom Alexander.
“Trevethick. How the devil are you?”
“Good, thanks. Anything to report from Brentford?”
“No. It’s all quiet on the western front. How’s Cornwall?”
“Cold.”
“You know, old boy, I’ve been thinking. This is an awful lot of trouble to go to for your daily. She’s a pretty girl and all that, but I hope she’s worth it.”
“She is.”
“I’ve never known you to be a sucker for a damsel in distress.”
“She’s not a dam—”
“I hope you’ve sealed the deal.”
“Tom, that’s none of your fucking business.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll take that as a no.” He laughs.
“Tom,” I warn.
“Yes. Yes. Trevethick. Keep your bloody hair on. It’s all good here. That’s all you need to know.”
“Thank you. Keep me updated.”
“Will do. Farewell.” He hangs up.
I stare down at the phone.
Fucker.
I email Oliver.
To: Oliver Macmillan
Date: 2 February 2019
From: Maxim Trevelyan
Re: Whereabouts
Oliver
I’m in Cornwall attending to a private matter and staying at the Hideout. I’m not sure how long I’m going to be here.
Tom Alexander will be invoicing me for his services via his security company, payment for which should come out of my personal allowances.
If you need to reach me, email is better, as phone reception down here, as you know, is spotty.
Thanks.
MT
Then I text Caroline.
In Cornwall. Will be here a while.
Hope all well with you. Mx
She texts back immediately.
Do you want me to come down?
No. Things to do.
Thanks for the offer.
Are you avoiding me?
Don’t be silly.
I don’t believe you.
I’ll call you at the Hall.
I’m not at the Hall.
Where are you, then?
And what the fuck are you doing
down there?
Caro. Leave it.
I’ll call next week.
What are you up to?
I’m intrigued and I miss you.
I have to see the
Stepsow again this
evening. Cxxxx
Good luck. Mx
How the fuck am I going to explain to Caroline what’s happening down here? I run my hands through my hair, hoping to find inspiration. Nothing comes to me, so I go looking for Alessia. She isn’t in either of the upstairs bedrooms.
“Alessia!” I call as I come back into the main living area, but she doesn’t reply. I dash down to the lower floor and quickly check the three ground-level guest bedrooms, the games and cinema room.
No Alessia.
Fuck.
I try to quell my rising panic and run back upstairs and through to the spa to see if she’s in the Jacuzzi or the sauna.
No sign.
Where the fuck is she?
I check the scullery.
And there she is, sitting bare-legged on the floor, reading a book while the tumble dryer rumbles away.
“Here you are.” I conceal my exasperation, feeling ridiculous for my concern. She stares up at me with warm brown eyes as I sink down onto the floor beside her.
“What are you doing?” I’m breathless as I lean against the wall. She draws her knees up and stretches her white top over them, concealing her legs. She rests her chin on her knees, her face an endearing shade of embarrassed pink.
“I’m reading, and I am waiting for my jeans to dry.”
“I can see that. Why didn’t you change?”
“Change?”
“Into another pair.”
She blushes a deeper shade of pink. “I do not have another pair.” Her tone is hushed and tinged with shame.
Bloody hell.
And I recall the two pathetic plastic bags that I packed into the boot of my car. They held everything she owns.
Closing my eyes, I lean my head back against the wall, feeling utterly stupid.
She has nothing.
Not even clothes. Or socks.
Shit.
Checking my watch, I realize it’s too late to go shopping. And I’ve had two pints, so I can’t—I don’t drink and drive. “It’s late now. Tomorrow I’ll take you to Padstow, and we can get you some new clothes.”
“I cannot afford new clothes. My jeans will be dry soon.”
Without acknowledging her comment, I glance down at her book. “What are you reading?”
“I found this on the bookshelves.” She holds up Jamaica Inn by Daphne du Maurier.
“Do you like it? It’s set in Cornwall.”
“I’ve just started it.”
“From what I remember, I enjoyed it. Look, I’m sure I have something you can wear.” I rise and hold out my hand. Clutching the book, she’s a little wobbly as she stands, and the hem of her top is wet.
Shit. She’ll catch a cold.