by James, E L
“First one no. I was expelled. The second one yes. It’s a good school. I made good friends there. You met them.”
“Oh, yes.” Alessia blushes as she remembers the two men in their underwear.
They settle into an easier conversation, and by the time they arrive home, she’s more cheerful.
* * *
We carry the bags into the house, and while Alessia unpacks the groceries, I take her clothes upstairs. I put them in the spare bedroom, then change my mind and place the bags in the walk-in wardrobe in my room. I want her in here with me.
It’s presumptuous.
Fuck.
I’m tangling myself in knots. I don’t know how to behave with her.
Sitting down on the bed, I put my head in my hands. Did I have a game plan before we got here?
No.
I was thinking with my dick. And now…well, I hope I’m thinking with my head and following my heart. During the drive home, I contemplated what to do. Should I tell her that I love her? Should I not? She’s given me no indication of how she feels about me, but then she’s reticent about most things.
She’s here with me.
That means something, surely?
She could have stayed with her friend, but that would have meant those gangsters returning and finding her. My blood turns to ice. I shudder to think what they would do to her if they did. No. I was her only option. She has nothing. How could she go on the run?
Yet she arrived in the UK with nothing, and she survived. She’s resourceful, but at what cost to herself? The thought weighs heavily on me. What did she do during the time between her arrival and finding Magda?
The anguish in her eyes in the restaurant. It was…affecting.
I’m tired of being afraid.
I wonder how long she’s felt this way. Since she got here? I don’t even know how long she’s been in the UK. There’s so much I don’t know about her.
But I want her to be happy.
Think. What to do?
First. We have to make her legal here. And I have no idea how to do that. My solicitors should know the answer. I can only imagine Rajah’s face when I tell him I’m harboring an illegal immigrant.
Her grandmother was English. Maybe that will help.
Fuck. I don’t know.
What else could I do?
I could marry her.
What?
Marriage?
I laugh out loud, because the idea is so absurd.
Why not?
It would freak my mother out. For that reason alone, it’s worth popping the question. Tom’s words from our night at the pub come back to me: You know, now that you’re the earl, you’ll need to provide an heir and a spare.
I could make Alessia my countess.
My heart starts hammering. That would be a bold move.
And maybe a little sudden.
I don’t even know if she has feelings for me.
I could ask her.
I roll my eyes. I am going round and round in circles. The truth is, I need to find out more about her. How could I ask her to be my wife? I know where Albania is on the map, but that’s about it. Well, I can put that right, now.
I drag my phone out of my pocket and open Google.
* * *
It’s dark when my phone starts to complain about its remaining battery life. I’m sprawled across the bed, reading everything I can about Albania. It’s a fascinating place, part modern, part ancient, with a turbulent history. I’ve found Alessia’s hometown. It’s in the northeast, nestled among mountain ranges and a few hours’ drive from the capital. From all I’ve read, it does appear that life is more traditional in that region.
This explains a great deal.
Alessia is cooking downstairs. Whatever she’s making, its savory aroma is enticing. I get up and stretch and head downstairs to see her.
She’s still dressed in her white top and jeans, and she has her back to me at the stove, mixing something in a pan. My mouth waters; it smells delicious.
“Hi,” I greet her, and sit down on one of the barstools at the counter.
“Hi.” She gives me a quick smile, and I notice she’s plaited her hair. I plug my phone into one of the charging sockets beneath the counter and fire up the Sonos.
“Is there any music you’d like to hear?” I ask.
“You choose.”
I select a mellow playlist and hit PLAY. RY X blasts out of the speakers overhead, making us both jump. I turn it down. “Sorry about that. What are you cooking?”
“A surprise,” she says with a coquettish glance over her shoulder.
“I love surprises. It smells good. Can I do anything to help?”
“No. This is my thank-you. Would you like to drink?”
I laugh. “Yes. I would like a drink. Do you mind that I’m correcting your English?”
“No. I want to learn.”
“ ‘Would you like a drink?’ is what we say.”
“Okay.” She flashes me another smile.
“And yes, I would. Thank you.”
She sets the pan aside and from the counter takes an open bottle of red wine and pours me a glass.
“I’ve been reading about Albania.”
She whips her eyes to mine, her face lighting up like the early dawn. “Home,” she whispers.
“Tell me more about life in Kukës.”
Maybe it’s because she’s distracted while cooking supper, but she finally opens up and starts to describe the house she lived in with her father and mother. It’s beside a vast lake, surrounded by fir trees….And while she’s telling me, I watch and marvel at how she moves about behind the counter with such ease and grace, as if she’s been cooking in this kitchen for years. Whether it’s grating nutmeg or adjusting the timing on the oven. She’s like a professional. And as she cooks, she tops up my wine, washes dishes, and gives me insights into her claustrophobic life in Kukës.
“So you don’t drive?”
“No,” she answers as she lays the table for us.
“Does your mother drive?”
“Yes. But not often.” She smiles when she sees my consternation. “You know that most Albanians did not drive until the mid-1990s. Before the fall of the Communists. We had no cars.”
“Wow. I had no idea.”
“I would like to learn.”
“To drive? I’ll teach you.”
She’s taken aback. “In your fast car? I do not think so!” She laughs as if I’ve suggested flying to the moon for lunch.
“I could teach you.” We have enough land here, we don’t need to be on the public highway. We’ll be safe. A vision of her driving one of Kit’s cars, maybe his Morgan, comes to mind. Yes. That would be suitable for a countess.
Countess?
“This will take another fifteen minutes or so to cook,” she says, and she taps her lips with her finger. There’s something on her mind.
“What would you like to do?”
Alessia chews her bottom lip.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I’d like to talk to Magda.”
Of course she wants to talk to her. Magda’s probably her only bloody friend. Why didn’t I think of that?
“Sure. Here.” I unplug my phone and find Magda’s contact details. When the call connects, I hand the phone to Alessia, who gives me a grateful smile.
“Magda…Yes, it’s me.” Alessia moves to sit down on the sofa while I try and fail not to eavesdrop. I imagine that Magda is relieved to hear that Alessia is still in one piece. “No. Fine.” Alessia glances up at me, her eyes shining. “Very fine,” she says with a wide grin, and I find myself reciprocating.
I’ll take “very fine” any day.
She laughs at something Magda says, and my heart swel
ls. It’s so good to hear her laugh; she doesn’t do it often enough.
As she talks, I try not to watch her, but I can’t resist. Unconsciously she winds a lock of hair that’s escaped from her plait around her fingers as she tells Magda about the sea and her impromptu dip in it yesterday.
“No. It’s beautiful here. It reminds me of home.” She looks up at me again, and I’m caught in her all-consuming gaze.
Home.
I could make this her home….
My mouth dries.
Mate! You are getting way ahead of yourself!
I look away, breaking the spell of Alessia’s stare. I’m troubled by where my thoughts are heading and take a sip of wine. My reaction is all too new and too presumptuous.
“How is Michal? And Logan?” she asks, hungry for news, and she’s soon lost in a lively conversation about packing and Canada—and weddings.
Alessia laughs again, and her voice changes, becoming softer…sweeter. She’s talking to Michal, and I know from her tone that she’s exceptionally fond of him. I shouldn’t be jealous—he’s a kid—but maybe I am? I’m not sure I appreciate this new and unwelcome feeling.
“Be good, Michal….I miss you….Bye.”
She glances at me once more. “Okay. I will….Good-bye, Magda.” She hangs up and wanders back to me to hand me my phone. She looks happy. I’m glad she made the call.
“All good?” I ask.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“And with Magda?”
“She is packing. She’s happy and sad to be leaving England. And she is relieved to have the security man near.”
“Great. She must be excited to start a new life.”
“She is. Her fiancé is a good man.”
“What does he do?”
“Something to do with computers.”
“I should get you a phone, and then you can speak to her when you want.”
She looks appalled. “No. No. That is too much. You cannot do that.”
I raise a brow, knowing full well that I can.
She arches a brow in return, displeased, but I’m saved by the ping of the oven timer.
“Dinner is cooked.”
* * *
Alessia places the casserole dish on the table beside the salad she’s made. She’s pleased that the yogurt crust has risen into a crisp, golden brown dome. Maxim is impressed. “It looks good,” he says, and Alessia suspects he’s being overeffusive.
She serves him a portion and sits down. “It is lamb, rice, and yogurt with a few secret…um…ingredients. We say tavë kosi.”
“We don’t bake our yogurt here. We put it on our muesli.”
She laughs.
He takes a bite and closes his eyes as he savors the food. “Mmm.” He opens his eyes and nods enthusiastically. He swallows. “This is delicious. You weren’t lying when you said you could cook!”
Alessia blushes under his warm gaze.
“You can cook for me anytime.”
“I would like that,” she murmurs. She would like that very much.
* * *
We talk and drink and eat. I ply her with wine and questions. Many questions. About her childhood. School. Friends. Family. Reading about Albania has inspired me. Sitting across from Alessia is inspiring, too; she’s so full of life. Her eyes are shining and expressive as she talks. And she’s animated, using her hands to demonstrate a point.
She’s captivating.
Occasionally she will tuck that stray strand of hair away, her fingers skimming around the shell of her ear.
I’d like her fingers on me.
I anticipate unraveling her plait later and running my fingers through her soft, luscious hair. It’s heartwarming to see her so carefree and talkative for a change. From the sweet flush on her cheeks, I suspect it might be the wine. I take a sip of the tasty Italian Barolo that’s working its magic.
Replete, I push my plate away and refill her glass. “Tell me about a typical day in Albania.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“There is not much to tell. If I am working, my father will drive me to the school. And when I am home, I help my mother. Washing. Cleaning. Like I do for you.” Espresso eyes peek up, unmasking me with her knowing look. It’s sexy as hell. “And that is all I do,” she adds.
“Sounds rather dull.” Too dull for bright Alessia. And I suspect a little lonely.
“It is.” She laughs.
“From what I’ve read, northern Albania is quite conservative.”
“Conservative.” She frowns and takes a quick sip of her wine. “Do you mean traditional?”
“Yes.”
“Where I am from, we are traditional.” She stands to clear the crockery from the table. “But Albania is changing. In Tiranë—”
“Tirana?”
“Yes. It’s a modern city. It is not so traditional or conservative there.” She puts the plates in the sink.
“Have you been?”
“No.”
“Would you like to go?”
She takes her seat once more and tilts her head to the side, brushing her index finger across her lips. Her look is wistful for a brief moment. “Yes. One day.”
“Have you traveled at all?”
“No. Only in books.” Her smile brightens the room. “I have traveled all over the world in books. And I’ve been to America watching TV.”
“American TV?”
“Yes. Netflix. HBO.”
“In Albania?”
She grins at my surprise. “Yes. We have television!”
“So, back home, what did you do for kicks?” I ask.
“Kicks?”
“Fun. You know. Fun.”
She looks a little puzzled. “I read. Watch TV. Practice my music. Sometimes I listen to the radio with my mother. The BBC World Service.”
“Do you go out?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Sometimes. In the summer we will walk in the town in the evening. But it is with my family. And sometimes I play the piano.”
“A recital? For the public?”
“Yes. At the school and weddings.”
“Your parents must be proud.”
A shadow crosses her face. “Yes. They were. Are,” she corrects herself, and her voice falters and dips, becoming soft and sad. “My father, he likes the attention.” Her demeanor changes, and she seems to fold in on herself.
Shit. “You must miss them.”
“My mother. I miss my mother,” she answers quietly, and takes another sip of wine.
Not her dad? I don’t push her on that. Her mood has shifted. I should change the subject, but if she misses her mother so much, perhaps she wants to return. I remember what she told me:
We thought we were coming here to work. For a better life. Life in Kukës is hard for some women. We were betrayed—
Maybe that’s what she wants. To go home. And though I dread what her answer might be, I ask her anyway. “Would you like to go back?”
“Back?”
“Home.”
Her eyes widen with fear. “No. I cannot. I cannot.” Her tone is a hushed, rushed whisper, and the fine hairs on my neck stand on end.
“Why?”
She remains mute, but I want to know. I press her. “Is it because you don’t have a passport?”
“No.”
“Then why? Was it that bad?”
She screws her eyes shut and bows her head as if ashamed. “No,” she whispers. “It’s because…it’s because I am betrothed.”
Chapter Eighteen
My chest constricts as if I’ve been kicked in the solar plexus.
Betrothed?
What medieval claptrap is this?
S
he looks up at me. Her eyes wide, exposing her distress. Adrenaline pumps through my body; I’m ready for a fight. “Betrothed?” I whisper, knowing full well what it means.
She’s fucking promised to another.
She bows her head again. “Yes.” Her voice is barely audible.
I have a rival. Shit.
“And you were going to tell me this…when?”
Her eyes are scrunched shut as if she’s in pain.
“Alessia, look at me.”
She lifts her hand to her mouth—to suppress a sob? I don’t know. She swallows, then raises her eyes to meet mine. Her expression is raw, her despair palpable. My anger dissolves in a second, leaving me in turmoil.
“I am telling you now,” she says.
She’s unavailable.
The pain is instant. Visceral. Shocking. I’m in free fall.
What the hell?
My world has shifted. My ideas. My vague plans. Being with her…marrying her…
I can’t.
“Do you love him?”
She draws back and gapes at me in shock. “No!” It’s a breathless, passionate denial. “I do not want to marry him. That is why I left Albania.”
“To get away from him?”
“Yes. I was to be married in January. After my birthday.”
It was her birthday?
I stare blankly at her. And suddenly the walls are closing in on me. I need space. Like when I first met her. I’m suffocating in a whirlwind of doubt and confusion. I need to think. I stand, and in one deliberate move, raise my hand to sweep my hair aside and gather my thoughts. Alessia recoils beside me. She cowers and clasps her head in her hands as if she’s waiting—
What?
“Fuck. Alessia! Did you think I was going to hit you?” I exclaim, and step back, horrified by her reaction. Another piece of the puzzle that is Alessia Demachi falls into place. No wonder she always stood out of my reach. And I’m ready to kill the motherfucker. “Did he hit you? Did he?”
She looks down at her lap. Ashamed, I think.
Or maybe she has some misplaced loyalty to the fucking arsehole from Buttfuck, Nowhere, who has a spurious claim on my girl.