“No,” he utters, as if talking to himself. “Come on, I’ll take you to your room.” He collects her plastic bags from the kitchen counter, and she follows him up the staircase. At the top of the stairs is a brightly lit landing with two doors. Maxim opens the second one and switches on the light.

The off-white room is spacious and airy, with a king-size bed against the far wall and a large window to one side. The linen is off-white, too, but the bed is scattered with cushions that match the colors in the dramatic seascape that hangs above the bed.

Maxim waves her inside and places her bags on a colorful embroidered bench. As she approaches the bed, she stares at her reflection in the dark window. Maxim moves to stand behind her. Mirrored in the glass, he’s tall, lean, and more than handsome, and she looks wan and scruffy beside him. In every way, they are not equals, and that’s never been more apparent than at this moment.

What does he see in me? I am only his cleaner.

Her mind casts back to his sister-in-law in the kitchen. She had looked elegant and stylish wearing only his oversize shirt. Alessia turns her head so she’s no longer taunted by her own image while Maxim draws down the pale green blind and continues to show her around the room.

“There’s an en suite here for you,” he says gently, pointing to the bathroom door and diverting her from her discouraging thoughts.

My own bathroom!

“Thank you,” she says, but the words seem woefully inadequate for the debt she owes him.

“Hey,” he says, standing in front of her, his bright eyes brimming with compassion. “I realize that this is all very sudden, Alessia. And we hardly know each other. But I couldn’t leave you at the mercy of those men. You have to understand that.” He catches a loose strand of hair that’s worked its way free from her braid and gently tucks it behind her ear. “Don’t worry. You’re safe here. I’m not going to touch you. Well, not unless you want me to.” Alessia catches a trace of his scent, evergreen and sandalwood. She closes her eyes, trying to keep a tight rein on her emotions. “This is my family’s holiday home,” he continues. “Think of our time here as a holiday. A place to think, reflect, get to know each other, and get some distance from all the recent dreadful events in your life.”

A lump forms in Alessia’s throat, and she bites her upper lip.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Mos qaj.

“My room’s next door, if you need anything. But right now, it’s really late and what we both need is some sleep.” He plants a tender kiss on her forehead. “Good night.”

“Good night.” Her voice is hoarse and almost inaudible.

He turns and leaves the room, and she’s finally alone, standing in the confines of the most glorious bedroom she has ever been invited to sleep in. She looks from the painting to the bathroom door to the magnificent bed, and slowly she sinks to the floor. Wrapping her arms around herself, she begins to weep.

* * *

I hang our coats in the cloakroom, then collect my beer from the kitchen counter and enjoy a long draft.

What a day!

That first sweet kiss, I groan thinking about it—interrupted by those fucking thugs—and then her sudden disappearance and my mad drive to that godforsaken corner of West London.

And her revelation. Sex-trafficked.

Fuck—that was one hell of a shock.

And now we’re here. Alone.

I rub my face, trying to process everything that’s happened. I should be tired after the long drive and the trials and tribulations of the day, but instead I’m wired. Glancing up at the ceiling, I pinpoint where Alessia should, I hope, be sleeping peacefully. She’s the real reason I’m restless. It took every shred of self-control not to pull her into my arms and…And what? Even after all she’s told me, I can’t keep my thoughts above my waist. I’m like a fucking horny schoolboy.

Leave the woman alone.

But the truth is, I still want her and don’t my blue balls know it.

Hell. After all Alessia’s been through, she deserves a break.

She doesn’t need my lascivious attention.

She needs a friend.

Bugger. What the hell is wrong with me?

I grab my beer and drain the bottle, then reach for Alessia’s glass. She’s hardly touched her drink. I take a swig and run a hand through my hair. I know damn well what’s wrong with me.

I want her. Badly.

I’m infatuated.

There, I’ve admitted it to myself. She’s invaded my thoughts and my dreams since I laid eyes on her.

I fucking burn for her.

But in all my fantasies, she shares my desire. I want her, yes. But I want her wet and willing—I want her to want me, too. I know I could seduce her, but right now if she were to say yes, she’d be doing so for all the wrong reasons.

Besides, I promised her that I wouldn’t touch her unless she wanted me.

I close my eyes.

When did I acquire a conscience?

Deep down I know the answer. I am hamstrung by our inequality.

She has nothing.

I have everything.

And if I take advantage of her, what would that make me? No better than those fuckers with the Eastern European accents. I’ve brought her to Cornwall because I want to protect her from them—and now I have to protect her from myself.

Fuck.

This is uncharted territory.

While I down the remaining beer, I wonder what’s happening at the Hall. I decide that I can find out tomorrow, and I’ll also let Oliver know where I am. I doubt there’s anything urgent to deal with and I’m sure he’ll be in touch if there is. I can work down here. I have my phone, though I wish I’d brought my laptop.

Right now I need some sleep.

Leaving the empty glass and the beer bottle on the counter, I switch off the lights and head upstairs. I pause outside her bedroom door and listen.

Shit!

She’s crying.

I’ve had my fill of wailing women over the last four weeks: Maryanne, Caroline, Danny, Jessie. An image of Kit’s lifeless body comes to mind, and my own grief rises raw and unexpected.

Kit. Fuck. Why?

Suddenly I’m bone tired. I contemplate leaving her to cry but hesitate outside her door as the sound pierces my mourning heart. I can’t leave her sobbing. Sighing, I steel myself, then knock gently on the door and let myself in.

She’s crumpled on the floor, her head in her hands, right where I left her. Her grief is a reflection of my own.

“Alessia. Oh, no!” I exclaim, and scoop her into my arms. “Hush, now,” I murmur, my voice cracking. I sit down on the bed, cradle her in my lap, and bury my face in her hair. Closing my eyes, I inhale her sweet scent and tighten my arms, holding her and rocking gently.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper past the knot that constricts my throat. I couldn’t rescue my brother from the demons that drove him out on his motorbike into an icy night, but I can help this beautiful girl, this beautiful, brave girl. Her sobbing ceases, and she splays her hand over my racing heart and holds it there, I don’t know for how long. Finally she quiets and relaxes against me.

She’s fallen asleep.

In my arms.

In the safety of my arms.

What a privilege this is—to hold a sleeping beauty.

I press a soft kiss in her hair and shift her onto the bed, then cover her with the throw. Her plait snakes across the pillow, and for a moment I consider untying it and freeing her hair, but she mumbles something unintelligible in her own language, and I don’t want to wake her. I wonder once more if I haunt her dreams like she haunts mine. “Sleep, beautiful,” I whisper, and switch off the light before I step onto the landing. I close her door, anxious that the glare shouldn’t wake her, then turn out the hall light and stride into my bedroom, leaving my door ajar.

Just in case she needs me…

I press the electronic closer for the blinds, which descend over the French windows facing the sea. In the walk-in wardrobe, I strip off my clothes and find a pair of pajamas that Danny has brought over from the main house and slip on the bottoms. In London I rarely wear pajamas, but in Cornwall, with all the staff present, I have no choice. Leaving my clothes in a heap on the floor, I head into the bedroom and climb into bed. I turn off the bedside lamp and stare into the inky darkness.

Tomorrow will be a better day. Tomorrow I’ll have the lovely Alessia Demachi to myself. I lie in bed questioning my judgment. I’ve taken Alessia away from all that she knows. She’s destitute, friendless, and totally alone. Well, she has me, and I have to behave myself. “You’re going soft in your old age,” I mutter, and fall into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

It’s the shrill sound of her scream that wakes me.

Chapter Twelve

It takes me a couple of seconds to orient myself, and she screams again.

Fuck.

Alessia.

I fly out of bed as adrenaline fuels my body, bringing all my senses to attention. Punching the lights on in the hall, I burst into her room. Alessia is sitting up in her bed. Her head whips around at the sound and light from the hallway, her eyes wild with terror.

She opens her mouth to scream again.

“Alessia, it’s me, Maxim.”

Her words rush out in a torrent: “Ndihm?. Err?sir?. Shum? err?sir?. Shum? err?sir?!”

What?