This is her wake-up call.
She takes a long breath—she’s cried enough. Her deepening anger gives her momentum. She’s not going to cry over him. She’s mad at him, and at herself for being so stupid.
In her heart she knows that her fury is masking her hurt, and she’s grateful for it. It’s less painful than his betrayal.
She drops the robe on the floor, grabs the bag of clothes off the blue chair, and empties the contents onto the bed. Thankful that she had acted on impulse to bring her old clothes, too, she tugs on her pink panties, bra, her own jeans, her Arsenal FC top, and her sneakers. That’s the extent of her own stuff. She’s not brought her coat, but she grabs one of the sweaters that Mister Maxim—Lord Maxim—bought her, and the blanket that Danny had grabbed from the Hideout.
Dante and Ylli will be arrested, and surely once the police establish the extent of their crimes, they’ll be incarcerated and those brutes will no longer be a threat to her.
She can leave.
She’s not going to stay here.
She doesn’t want to be with a man who has deceived her. A man who will cast her aside when he tires of her. She would rather leave than be sent away.
She has to get out. Now.
Swiftly she downs the two tablets Danny has left for her. Then, with one last glance around the elegant bedroom, she opens the door a crack. There’s no one on the landing. She slips out of the room, closing the door behind her. Somehow she needs to find her way back to the Hideout to retrieve her money and her belongings. She cannot leave the house the way she came in—Danny might be in the kitchen. She turns right and heads down the long corridor.
* * *
The Jag skids to a halt by the old stables. I fling open the door and abandon the car, flying into the house. I’m desperate to see Alessia.
Danny, Jessie, and the dogs are in the kitchen. “Not now, boys,” I instruct the dogs as they leap up to greet me and be petted.
“Welcome back, my lord. The police gone?” Danny asks.
“Yes. Where is she?”
“In the blue room.”
“Thanks.” In haste I make for the door.
“Oh, my lord…” Danny calls after me and there’s a waver in her voice that brings me to a halt.
“What? How is she?”
“Shaken, sir. She threw up on the way over here.”
“Is she okay now?”
“She’s had a bath. And she’s changing into fresh clothes. And…” Danny glances with uncertainty at Jessie, who goes back to peeling spuds.
“What is it?” I demand.
Danny pales. “I mentioned that you’re the Earl of Trevethick.”
What?
“Shit!” I race out of the kitchen, along the west hallway, and bound up the back stairs toward the blue room with Jensen and Healey at my heels. My heart is pounding.
Bugger. Bugger. Bugger. I wanted to tell her. What must she be thinking?
Outside the blue room door, I stop and take a deep breath, ignoring the dogs, who have chased after me convinced some new game is afoot.
Alessia’s had a horrific scare today. Now she’s in a place she doesn’t know, with people she doesn’t know. She’s probably utterly overwhelmed.
And she’s going to be really fucking angry I didn’t tell her…
I knock on the door, briskly.
And wait.
I knock again. “Alessia!”
There’s no answer.
Fuck. She’s really pissed off with me.
With caution I open the door. Her clothes are scattered on the bed—her robe discarded on the floor, but there’s no sign of her. I check the bathroom. It’s empty except for the trace of her scent. Lavender and roses. For an instant I close my eyes and inhale. It’s soothing.
Where the hell is she?
She’s probably gone off to explore the house.
Or she’s left.
Shit.
I storm out of the room and bellow her name down the corridor. My voice echoes off the walls hung with portraits of my ancestors, but it’s met with a resounding silence. Dread seeps into my bones. Where is she? Has she passed out somewhere?
She’s fled.
This is all too much for her. Or maybe she thinks I don’t care….
Fuck.
I pace down the hallway, throwing open each door, with Jensen and Healey as my wingmen.
* * *
Alessia is lost. She’s trying to find a way out. On tiptoe, she walks past door after door, painting after painting, along yet another wood-paneled corridor, until she eventually reaches a pair of double doors. She pushes through and finds herself at the top of a grand, wide staircase carpeted in scarlet and blue, which leads to a cavernous dark hallway below. On the landing there’s a mullioned bay window, beside which stand two suits of armor holding what look like pikes. On the wall over the staircase is a massive faded tapestry, bigger than the kitchen table she saw earlier, that depicts a man on bended knee to his sovereign. Well, Alessia assumes he must be the sovereign, judging by the crown he’s wearing. On the opposing walls above the staircase, there are two portraits. Huge. Both men. One is from an ancient time, the other far more recent. She sees the family resemblance in their faces and has a flash of recognition. They each stare at her with the same imperious green eyes. His green eyes.
This is Maxim’s family. His heritage. She finds it almost impossible to grasp.
But then her gaze falls on the carved twin-headed eagles that sit on the newel posts at the top, the turns, and the bottom of the staircase.
The symbol of Albania.
Suddenly she hears him shout out her name. It startles her.
No.
He’s back.
He shouts again. He sounds panicked. Desperate. Alessia freezes at the top of the impressive staircase, staring at the history that surrounds her. She’s torn. From far off beneath her, a clock with a booming chime signals the hour, making her jump. Once, twice, three times…
“Alessia!” Maxim calls again, nearer this time, and she can hear his footsteps. He’s running—running toward her.
The clock is still chiming. Loud and clear.
What should she do?
She grips the ornate eagle at the corner of the staircase as Maxim and the two dogs burst through the double doors. He stops when he sees her. His eyes sweep from her face to her feet, and he frowns.
* * *
I’ve found her. But my relief is tempered by her aloof yet inscrutable expression and the fact that she’s wearing her old clothes and carrying a sweater and a blanket.
Shit. This does not look good.
Her stance reminds me of the first time I encountered her in my hallway, all those weeks ago. She’s clutching the newel post like she clutched that broom. My senses are on high alert.
Tread warily, dude.
“There you are. Where are you going?” I ask.
She tosses her hair over her shoulder with that careless grace she has and tilts her chin in my direction. “I’m leaving.”
No! It’s like she’s kicked me in the stomach.
“What? Why?”
“You know why.” She sounds haughty, her expression etched with righteous indignation.
“Alessia. I’m sorry, I should have told you.”
“But you did not.”
I can
’t argue with that. I stare at her while the hurt in her dark eyes burns a hole in my conscience.
“I understand.” She lifts one of her shoulders. “I am only your cleaner.”
“No. No. No!” I stalk toward her. “That’s not the reason.”
“Sir. Is everything okay?” Danny’s voice echoes off the stone walls and up the staircase from beneath us. I lean over the balustrade, and she appears with Jessie and Brody, one of the estate hands, in the hallway below. The three of them gape up at us openmouthed, like curious carp from the fish pond.
“Go. Now. All of you. Go!” I wave them away. Danny and Jessie exchange anxious glances, but they scatter.
Thank fuck.
I turn my attention back to Alessia. “This is why I didn’t bring you here. There are just too many people in this house.”
She tears her gaze away from me, her brow furrowed, her mouth a tight line.
“This morning I had breakfast with nine staff, and that was just the first sitting. I didn’t want to intimidate you with all…this.” I wave at the portraits of my father and the first earl while she traces the intricate carvings on the eagle with one finger. She remains mute.
“And I wanted you to myself,” I whisper.
A tear slides down her cheek.
Fuck.
“Do you know what he said?” she whispers.
“Who?”
“Ylli.”
One of those fucking intruders at the Hideout. “No.” Where is she going with this?
“He said that I am your concubine.” Her voice is hushed, full of shame.
No!
“That’s…absurd. It’s the twenty-first century….” It takes all my self-restraint not to pull her into my arms, but I inch closer, so close that the warmth from her body seeps into mine. Somehow I manage not to touch her. “I would say that you’re my girlfriend. That’s what we say here. Though I don’t want to presume. We’ve not discussed our relationship, as this has all happened so quickly. But that’s what I want to call you. Girlfriend. My girlfriend. Which means that we are together in a relationship. But that’s only if you’ll have me.”