Alessia wakes in the gray light of early morning. She’s nestled under Maxim’s arm, her hand splayed on his belly. He’s fast asleep, with his face turned toward her. His hair is tousled, his lips slightly parted, and his cheeks and jawline shaded with stubble. He looks relaxed and quite irresistible. She stretches out beside him, enjoying the pull of her muscles. Her side is a little sore, and her bruise is still tender, but she feels…good.
No. More than good.
Hopeful. Calm. Powerful. Safe.
Because of this wonderful man asleep beside her.
She loves him. With all her heart.
And what’s more remarkable, he loves her, too. She can scarcely believe it.
He’s given her hope.
Maxim stirs, and his eyelids blink open.
“Good morning,” she whispers.
“It is now,” he answers with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “You look lovely. Sleep well?”
“Yes.”
“You had a nightmare.”
“Me? Last night?”
“You don’t remember?”
Alessia shakes her head. He skims her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I’m glad you don’t. How are you feeling?”
“Good.”
“Good or good?” His tone is sultry.
“Very good.” She grins.
Maxim rolls over, pinning her to the mattress, and stares down at her, his green eyes glowing. “God, I love waking up next to you,” he whispers, and kisses her throat. She throws her arms around his neck and surrenders gladly to his skilled mouth.
* * *
“I suppose we should get up and go back to London,” Maxim murmurs against her belly. Alessia’s fingers play with his hair, but she’s too relaxed to move. She’s relishing the few moments of quiet after their passionate storm. Finally he interrupts her reverie. “Shower with me.” He turns his head to look up at her with the broadest of smiles.
How can she resist?
* * *
Alessia towel-dries her hair while I shave. The bruise on her side looks smaller, but it’s still a livid purple. A wave of guilt washes through me—she certainly gave me no indication last night or this morning that she was in any pain. She gives me a dazzling smile over her shoulder, and like a sea mist in the breeze, my guilt fades into the ether.
Part of me wants to stay here with her forever. But I’m also anxious to leave. I don’t want Sergeant Nancarrow or his colleague coming to the Hall to interview Alessia. I need to keep her away from the police. If necessary, I’ll inform him that business has taken me back to London.
It will be a shame to go. I’m enjoying our comfortable familiarity, and I marvel at the change in her. She seems far more confident, and it’s been only a few days. Tossing her hair to the side, with a glance at me, she strolls out of the bathroom, naked as the day she was born. I peek around the doorframe; the view is too tantalizing not to enjoy, her hair swinging almost to her waist in a gentle counterpoint to her walk. She stops at the bed and rummages through the wicker basket on the ottoman, looking for some clothes. When she glances up and catches me gawking, she smirks. And I move back to stare at my reflection in the mirror with a smug grin. Her newfound confidence is sexy as hell.
A few moments later, she appears in the doorway and leans on the frame. She’s wearing the clothes I bought her, and I know it’s going to be a good day. “In the bottom of the armoire, there should be a bag you can use for your clothes. Or I can ask Danny to pack them for you.”
“I can do it.” She folds her arms, studying me. “I like to watch you shave.”
“I like you watching me,” I murmur as I finish up. Turning, I brush her lips with a kiss, then wipe my face of the remaining foam. “Let’s have some breakfast and get on the road.”
* * *
Alessia is animated on our drive back to London. We talk and laugh and talk some more—she has the most infectious giggle. When we hit the M4, she takes command of the music, and we listen to the Rachmaninoff. As the first bars of the piano concerto begin to play, I’m reminded of when she played this piece at the Hideout—the memory is stirring. I watched her lose herself in the music, and she took me with her. From the corner of my eye, I notice Alessia’s fingers pressing imaginary keys through the cadenza. I’d love to see her play this again, but this time as a performance with a full orchestra.
“Have you seen Brief Encounter?”
“No.”
“It’s a classic British film. The director uses this piece throughout the movie. It’s cool. It’s one of my mother’s favorite films.”
“I’d like to see it. I love this music.”
“And you play it so well.”
“Thank you.” She gives me a shy smile. “What is she like?”
“My mother? She’s…ambitious. Clever. Funny. Not very maternal.” As I say it, I feel a stab of disloyalty, but the truth is, Rowena always seemed bored or inconvenienced by her young children. She happily handed us over to our various nannies and sent us off to boarding school. It was only after our father died that we became more interesting to her.
Though she was always interested in Kit.
“Oh,” says Alessia.
“My relationship with my mother is a little…strained. I suppose I never forgave her for leaving my father.”
“She left him?” She sounds shocked.
“She left all of us. I was twelve.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She met someone younger—and broke my father’s heart.”
“Oh.”
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago. We have an uneasy truce now. Well, ever since Kit died.” Talking about this is grim. “Choose another song,” I prompt when the Rachmaninoff finishes. “Something cheerful.”
She smiles and scrolls through the list. “ ‘Melody’?”
I laugh. “Rolling Stones? Yes. Play that.” She taps the screen, and the countdown begins: Two. One, two, three, followed by the blues piano. Alessia grins. She likes it. Lord, I have so much music I’d like to share with her.
* * *
The roads are quiet and we make good time. We fly past the junction for Swindon, with a further eighty miles to go until we reach Chelsea. But I have to stop for petrol, so I take the slip road for Membury Services. Alessia’s demeanor suddenly changes. Her hand grips the door handle and she casts large, apprehensive eyes at me.
“I know that service stations make you anxious. We’ll just get petrol. Okay?” Reaching over, I give her knee a reassuring squeeze. She nods but looks unconvinced. I pull up by a petrol pump, and she hops out to stand beside me while I fill up. “You going to keep me company?”
She nods and dances from foot to foot to stay warm, her breath a gauzy cloud around her. Her eyes survey the locale and fix on the parked trucks. She’s watchful. Wary. It’s painful to see her this way, especially when she’d been so relaxed this morning.
“You know you’re safe now. The police have them,” I say to reassure her, but then the pump stops with a loud metallic clunk, startling us both. The tank is full. “Let’s pay.” Hooking the nozzle back in its holder, I slip my arm around her shoulders, and we head into the shop. She walks beside me, subdued.
“You okay?” We’re in the queue, and she’s radiating anxiety, taking furtive glances at everyone in the shop.
“It was my mother’s idea,” she blurts, quickly, quietly. “She thou
ght she was helping me.” It takes me a couple of seconds to realize what she’s referring to.
Bloody hell. She’s telling me this story now? A frisson runs up my spine. Why now? I have to pay for my petrol. “Hold that thought.” I raise my index finger and hand the shop assistant my credit card. His eyes shift to Alessia, several times.
Man, she is so out of your league.
“Please enter your PIN,” he says, smiling at Alessia, who barely gives him a glance. She’s watching the petrol pumps, checking who’s out there.
When I’m done, I take her hand. “Shall we continue talking in the car?”
She nods.
As we climb back into the Jag, I wonder why she picks service stations and car parks for her revelations. I drive away from the pumps, park the car facing woodland, and the engine idles off. “Okay. Do you still want to talk?”
Alessia stares out at the leafless trees in front of us and nods. “My betrothed. He is a violent man. One day…” Her voice falters.
My heart sinks. It is as I feared.
What the fuck did he do to her?
“He does not like me playing the piano. He does not like the…um…attention that I get.”
I despise him even more.
“He is angry. He wants me to stop….”
My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
Alessia’s voice is practically inaudible. “He hits me. And he wants to break my fingers.”
“What?”
She looks down at her hands. Her precious hands. She cups one with the other, holding it tenderly.
The fucking piece of shit hurt her.
“I had to get away.”