I try not to look at her long, naked legs. I
try not to imagine them wrapped around my waist. I fail.
And she’s wearing the Pink Panties.
Torture.
My need is a slow, dull ache.
I’ll have to shower. Again.
“Come on.” My voice is thick with desire, but fortunately she doesn’t seem to notice. We head upstairs, and she ducks into the guest room while I explore the walk-in wardrobe to see what other clothes Danny has brought to the house.
Alessia appears by the door a few moments later wearing SpongeBob pajama bottoms and an Arsenal FC shirt.
“I have these,” she says with an apologetic and still half-tipsy smile.
I stop rummaging.
Even in ridiculous, faded pajamas and a football shirt, she is stunning. “They’ll do.” I smirk as I imagine slipping those trousers off her hips and down her legs.
“These were Michal’s,” she says.
“I guessed.”
“They were too small for him.”
“They look a little big for you. We’ll get you some clothes tomorrow.”
She opens her mouth to protest, but I raise my finger to her lips. “Hush.” Her lips are soft to my touch.
I want this woman.
She pouts and forms a kiss against my skin, and her eyes stray to my mouth and darken. My breath catches in my throat. “Please don’t look at me like that,” I whisper, taking my finger off her lips.
“Like…what?” Her voice is barely audible.
“You know. Like you want me.”
She flushes and stares down at her feet.
“I am sorry,” she whispers.
Shit. I’ve upset her. “Alessia.” I close the space between us so I’m almost touching her. The enchanting scent of lavender and roses mixed with the salty air of the sea invades and intoxicates my senses. I stroke her cheek, and she leans her lovely face into my palm.
“I do want you,” she murmurs, raising alluring eyes to mine. “But I don’t know what to do.”
I brush her bottom lip with my thumb. “I think you’ve had too much to drink, beautiful.”
She blinks, and her eyes cloud with a look I don’t understand. And with a lift of her chin she turns and walks out of the room.
What the hell?
“Alessia!” I call, and follow her, but she ignores me and descends the stairs.
I sigh and sit down on the top step and rub my face. I’m confused. I am trying—really fucking trying—to be noble here.
I snort at the irony.
I know the look she was giving me.
Hell. I’ve seen it often enough.
A fuck-me, fuck-me-now look.
Isn’t that why I brought her here?
But she’s tipsy, and she has no one, and she has nothing. Nothing at all.
She has me.
Hook. Line. And sinker.
If I fuck her, I’ll be taking advantage.
Simple.
So I can’t.
But I’ve offended her.
Shit.
The mournful strains of the piano suddenly fill the house. It’s a melancholic Bach Prelude in E-flat Minor. I know it well because I studied it for my grade four or five music examination as a teen. She plays exquisitely, teasing out all the emotion and revealing the depths of the piece. Her skill is phenomenal. And she’s articulating everything she feels through the music. She’s pissed off. At me.
Bloody hell.
Maybe I should take her up on her offer—fuck her and take her back to London. But even as the thought enters my head, I know I can’t do that.
I have to find somewhere for her to live.
I rub my face again.
She could live with me.
What? No.
I’ve never lived with anyone.
Would it be so bad?
The truth is, I don’t want any harm coming to Alessia Demachi. I want to protect her.
I sigh.
What’s happening to me?
* * *
Alessia pours her confusion into the Bach prelude she’s playing. She wants to forget everything. His look. His doubt. His rejection. The music slowly moves through her and out into the room, filling it with the somber colors of regret. And as she plays, she surrenders herself to the melody and forgets. Everything.
When the final notes die, she opens her eyes, and Mister Maxim is standing by the kitchen counter, watching her.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” she responds.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. That’s twice today.”
“You are very contrary,” Alessia says, trying to voice her confusion. As an afterthought she adds, “Is it my clothes?”
“What?”
“That you do not like.” After all, he’s insisted he wants to buy her new clothes. She stands, and in an uncharacteristic, brave moment she gives him a quick twirl. She hopes she will make him smile.
Walking toward her, he eyes her football shirt and her cartoon pj’s and rubs his chin as if considering her hypothesis. “I love that you’re dressed like a thirteen-year-old boy.” His tone is dry, but amused, too.
Alessia giggles. Loudly. Infectiously. And he laughs with her.
“That’s better,” he whispers. He grasps her chin and kisses her. “You are a very desirable woman, Alessia, whatever you’re wearing. Don’t let me or anyone else make you feel otherwise. You’re also very, very talented. Play something else. For me. Please.”
“Okay,” she says, mollified by his kind words, and she sits down at the piano once more. She gives him a quick, knowing smile and starts to play.
* * *
It’s my song.
The song I finished after I met her.
She knows it. By heart. And she plays it a damned sight better than I do. I started this song when Kit was alive…and now I hear my own sorrow and regret in the harmonies that fill the room. Grief hits me like a tidal wave, crashing over me. Drowning me. A knot forms in my throat, and I try to contain my emotion, but it expands, constricting my ability to breathe. I watch her, spellbound but aching as the music punctures my heart and touches the yawning void that is Kit’s absence. Her eyes are closed. She’s concentrating and losing herself in the sad, solemn melody.
I’ve tried to ignore my grief. But it’s there. It’s been there since the day he died. I told Alessia that I loved him. I did. I really did love him. My big brother.
But I never told him.
Not once.
And now I miss him more than he’ll ever know.
Kit.
Why?
Tears burn behind my eyes as I lean against the wall, trying to fight my anguish and loss. I cover my face with my hands.
I hear her gasp, and she stops. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. I shake my head, unable to speak or look at her. Hearing the scrape of the stool, I know that she’s stepped away from the piano. Then I feel her near me, and she touches my arm. It’s a compassionate gesture. And it’s my undoing.
“That reminded me of my brother.” I squeeze the words past the lump in my throat. “We buried him here, three weeks ago.”
“Oh, no.” She sounds crestfallen, and she wraps her arms around me, surprising me, and whispers, “I am so sorry.”
I bury my face in her hair and inhale her soothing scent. And I cannot stop the tears sliding down my face.
Shit.
She’s unmanned me.
I didn’t cry at the hospital. I didn’t cry at the funeral. I haven’t cried since my father died when I was sixteen years old. Yet here. Now. With her I let go. And I sob in her arms.
Chapter Fourteen
Alessia’s heart rate accelerates as she panics. Confused, she holds him, her mind in a whirl.
What has she done?
Mister Maxim. Mister Maxim. Maxim.
She thought he’d find it amusing that she knew his piece.
But no, she’s reminded him of his grief. Her remorse is swift and merciless and flutters staccato in her belly. How could she have been so insensitive? He tightens his hold on her as he weeps, making no sound. Three weeks is no time. No wonder he’s still grieving. She draws him closer and strokes his back. She remembers how she felt when her grandmother passed away. Nana had been the only one who understood her. The only person she could really talk to. She’s been gone a year.
She swallows the burning sensation in her throat. Maxim is vulnerable and sad, and she wants nothing but to make him smile again. He has done so much for her. She runs her hands up his shoulders and to the nape of his neck and, clasping his head, turns his face to hers. His gaze holds no expectations; all she sees in his luminous green eyes is his sorrow. Slowly she pulls his mouth to hers and kisses him.
* * *
I groan when her lips brush mine. Her kiss is timid but so unexpected and oh, so sweet. I screw my eyes shut as I fight the outpouring of my grief. “Alessia.” Her name is a blessing. My hands cradle her head, my fingers threading through her soft, silky hair as I accept her hesitant, unschooled kiss. She kisses me once, twice, three times.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers.
And her words draw all the air from my lungs. I want to crush her to me and never let her go. I can’t remember the last person who consoled me in my hour of need.
Alessia kisses my neck. My jaw. And my lips once more.
And I let her.
Gradually, my grief recedes, leaving only hunger in its wake. My hunger for her. I’ve been fighting my attraction to her since I saw her standing in my hallway holding that broom. But she’s broken through all my defenses. She’s exposed my grief. My need. My lust. And I’m powerless to resist.
She moves to hold and stroke my face, which is still damp with tears, and her caress spirals like a tornado through my body. I’m lost. Lost to her compassion, her courage, and her innocence. I’m lost to her touch.