No. Her father would not approve.

Her father had approved of only one man.

A cruel man.

No. Do not think of him.

The Mister is taking her home. She’s glad she’s memorized the address to Magda’s house. She can still see her mother’s untidy handwriting scrawled on the scrap of paper that had been her lifeline. She shivers and glances outside once more. It will be cold, but if she’s quick, she can leave while the Mister is changing and not inconvenience him. Yet the thought of walking all that distance does not appeal. She has done it before from much farther away. Then it had taken her six or seven days with a stolen map. She shivers once more. A week she’d like to forget. Besides, he said she could play his piano. She gives the Steinway a fervent look, claps her hands with excitement, and dashes to the laundry room, where she changes in seconds. Grabbing her coat, scarf, and hat, she hurries back to the piano.

Leaving her coat on a chair, she sits down on the stool and takes a steadying breath. She places her hands on the keys, enjoying the cool, familiar feel of the ivory. For her the piano is grounding. It’s home. Her safe place. Glancing once more out the window, she begins “Les jeux d’eaux à la Villa d’Este,” her favorite piece by Liszt, the music swirling up and around the piano, dancing in brilliant shades of white like the snowflakes outside. Her memories of her father, her six days of homelessness, and her mother’s disapproval are lost in the whirling, icy colors of the music.

* * *

I lean against the doorframe and watch her, mesmerized. Her performance is phenomenal, each note measured and played with such precision and emotion. The music flows effortlessly through her…from her. Each and every nuance is there on her beautiful face and in the music as she feels her way through the piece. A piece I don’t know.

She’s taken off the headscarf. I’ve been wondering if she wears it for religious reasons, but maybe it’s just for when she’s cleaning. Her hair is thick and dark, almost black. As she plays, a strand comes loose from her plait and curls around her cheek. What would her hair look like loose and cascading over her bare shoulders? I close my eyes, imagining her naked as I do in my dreams, letting the music wash over me.

Would this ever get old? Listening to her?

I open my eyes.

Watching her. Her beauty. Her talent.

Playing such a complex piece from memory. The girl is a genius.

While I was away, I’d thought that I’d embellished her performance in my imagination. But no. Her technique is flawless.

She’s flawless.

In every way.

She finishes the piece, her head lowered, eyes closed, and I applaud. “That was breathtaking. Where did you learn to play so well?”

Her cheeks flush as she opens her dark eyes, but a shy smile lights up her face, and she shrugs. “At home,” she answers.

“You can tell me more about it in the car. Are you ready?”

She stands, and it’s the first time I’ve seen her out of that hideous nylon housecoat. My mouth dries. She’s slimmer than I’d thought, but her delicate curves are all woman. She’s wearing a tight green V-neck sweater; the soft swell of her breasts strains against the wool and emphasizes her narrow waist, and her skintight jeans showcase the gentle flare of slender hips.

Fuck.

She’s gorgeous.

She quickly slips out of her trainers, drops them into her plastic shopping bag, and tugs on her battered brown boots.

“Don’t you wear socks?” I ask.

She shakes her head as she bends and laces each boot, but her cheeks pink once more.

Maybe no socks is an Albanian thing?

I glance out the window, glad to be taking her home. Not only will I get to spend more time with her, but I’ll find out where she lives and stop her from catching frostbite in her feet.

I hold out my hand. “Give me your coat,” I say, and she offers me a hesitant smile when I help her into it.

This rag will never keep her warm.

When she turns to face me, I notice a little gold cross around her neck and a badge on her sweater—for a school?

Shit.

“How old are you?” I ask in a sudden panic.

“I have twenty-three years.”

Old enough. Good.

I shake my head, feeling relieved. “Shall we go?” I ask.

She nods and, clasping her plastic bag, follows me out of the flat.

We wait in silence for the lift to take us down to the basement garage.

Once in the lift, Alessia stands as far away from me as she can. She really doesn’t trust me.

After my behavior this morning, am I surprised?

The thought depresses me, and I try to look as calm and nonchalant as possible, but I’m so acutely aware of her. All of her. Here in this small space.

Maybe it’s not just me. Maybe she just doesn’t like men. This thought is even more upsetting, so I brush it aside.

The basement garage is small, but because the family estate owns the building, I have parking spaces for two cars. I don’t need two, but I keep them anyway, a Land Rover Discovery and an F-Type Jaguar. I’m not a petrolhead like Kit. He was an avid collector, and now his fleet of rare vintage cars is mine. I like a motor that’s new and hassle-free. Christ knows what I’m going to do with Kit’s collection. I’ll have to ask Oliver. Maybe sell them? Give them to a museum in Kit’s name?

Lost in these thoughts, I press the remote for the Discovery, and its lights flash in welcome and it unlocks. With its four-wheel drive, it’ll easily tackle London’s snowbound streets. Only now do I notice that the car is filthy, still covered in mud and grime from my journey to Cornwall, and when I open the passenger door for Alessia, I see the sorry mess of litter in the footwell. “Hang on,” I say, and gather up the empty coffee cups, crisp packets, and sandwich wrappers. I stuff them into a plastic bag I find on the seat and dump it all in the back.

Why am I not tidier?

A lifetime of nannies and boarding school and staff to clean up after me has taken its toll.

With what I hope is a reassuring smile, I gesture for Alessia to climb in. I’m not certain, but she looks like she’s stifling a smile. Maybe the mess is amusing her.

I hope so.

She snuggles down in the seat, her eyes wide as she looks over the dashboard.

“What’s the address?” I ask as I push the ignition.

“Forty-three Church Walk, Brentford.”

Brentford! Lord. In the sticks.

“Postcode?”

“TW8 8BV.”

I program the destination into the navigation and ease the car out of its parking space. With the press of a button on the rearview-mirror console, the garage door gradually lifts, revealing the white maelstrom outside. The snow is already three or four inches deep, and it’s still falling fast.

“Wow,” I say, almost to myself. “I’ve never seen it like this.” I turn to Alessia. “Does it snow in Albania?”

“Yes. There is much more snow where I am from.”

“Where is that?” I drive onto the street and head to the end of the road.

“Kuk?s.”

I’ve never heard of it.

“It is a small town. Not like London,” Alessia clarifies.

A warning beep sounds. “Please put your seat belt on.”

“Oh.” She’s surprised. “We don’t wear these where I come from.”

“Well, it’s the law here, so buckle up.”

She pulls the strap across her chest and looks down for the catch, then presses the belt home. “There,” she says, pleased with herself, and it’s my turn to stifle a smile. Perhaps she doesn’t travel by car very often.

“You learned to play the piano at home?” I ask.

“My mother teaches me.”

“Does she play as well as you?”

Alessia shakes her head. “No.” And she shivers. I don’t know if she’s cold or if something else is spooking her. I crank up the heat, and we turn onto Chelsea Embankment. The lights from Albert Bridge wink through the swirling snow.

“It is pretty,” Alessia murmurs as we drive past.

“It is.”

Like you.

“We’ll take it slow,” I add. “We’re not used to snow like this in London.” Fortunately, the roads are relatively quiet as we turn off the Embankment. “So what brought you to London, Alessia?”

She shoots me a wide-eyed look, then frowns and looks down at her lap.

“Work?” I prompt.

She nods but seems to deflate like a balloon, withdrawing into herself.

Shit. A tingle runs down my spine. Something is off. Way off.

I try to reassure her. “It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about that.” Hurriedly I continue, “I wanted to ask you, how do you remember each piece so well?”

She raises her head, and it’s obvious that she’s more comfortable with this topic of conversation. She taps her temple. “I see the music. Like a painting.”

“You have a photographic memory?”

“Photographic memory? I don’t know. I see the music in colors. It is the colors that help me to remember.”

“Wow.” I’ve heard of this. “Synesthesia.”

“Syn-a-thee—” She stops, unable to pronounce the word.

“Synesthesia.”

She tries again, with a little more success. “What is this?” she asks.

“You see musical notes as colors.”