She runs her hands through her hair.

Mister Maxim is not like any man she’s ever known.

With the water pouring onto her face, she resolves to put all her problems out of her mind. Today, as Maxim says, it’s a holiday. Her first.

Wrapping her hair in a towel and her body in a bath sheet, she pads into the bedroom. A pounding beat is coming from downstairs. She listens. The music seems at odds with what she knows about him. His compositions suggest a quieter, more introspective man than the one blasting this loud music through the house.

She lays out her clothes on the bed. All of them, with the exception of her jeans and bra, had been given to her by Magda and Michal. She frowns, wishing she had something more attractive to wear. She slips on an off-white, long-sleeved T-shirt to wear over her jeans. It’s a little shapeless, but it will have to do. It’s all she has.

Towel-drying, then brushing out her hair, she leaves it loose and heads downstairs. Through the glass wall surrounding the staircase, she watches Maxim in the kitchen. He’s wearing a pale gray sweater and the ripped black jeans and has a tea towel draped over his shoulder while he stands at the stove. He’s frying bacon—the aroma is delicious—and he’s shuffling to the beat of the dance music that is thumping through the room. Alessia cannot help but grin. While cleaning his apartment, she had never seen any evidence that he could cook.

Men, where she is from, don’t cook.

Or dance while cooking.

The flex of his broad shoulders, the swivel of his slim hips, and his bare feet tapping in perfect time to the music are mesmerizing. She feels a delicious tightening in her belly. He rakes his fingers through his damp hair and then flips the bacon. Her mouth waters.

Mmm…the smell.

Mmm…the sight of him.

He turns suddenly, and his face lights up when he sees her on the stairs. His enormous smile mirrors hers.

“One egg or two?” he shouts above the music.

“One,” she mouths as she comes down the stairs and into the big room. She turns and gasps as she looks out through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The sea!

“Deti! Deti! The sea!” she shouts, sprinting to the glass wall of doors that lead onto the balcony.

* * *

I lower the heat under the bacon and hurry to the balcony doors to join Alessia, who’s jumping from foot to foot, incandescent with excitement.

“Can we go down to the sea?” Her eyes are alive with delight as she bounces up and down like a child.

“Of course. Here.” I unlock the balcony door and slide it open so that she can go outside. A gust of glacial air catches us both by surprise. It’s freezing, but she rushes out, not caring about her wet hair, bare feet, or thin T-shirt.

Doesn’t this woman have any decent clothes?

I pick up a gray throw that’s draped over the back of the sofa and walk out after her. I wrap my arms and the blanket around her, holding her as she admires the view. Her face is lit up with wonder.

The Hideout and our three other holiday homes are built along a rocky promontory. A small winding path at the end of the garden leads down to the beach. It’s a bright, clear day. The sun is shining, but it’s bitterly cold in the howling wind. The sea is a chilly blue, flecked with white surf, and we hear the boom of the waves as they crash against the cliffs on each side of the cove. The air smells fresh and salty. Alessia turns to me, her expression one of complete awe.

“Come on, let’s eat.” I’m conscious that breakfast is on the stove. “You’ll catch your death out here. We’ll go down to the beach after breakfast.” We head back inside and close the door. “I just have to do the eggs!” I shout above the music.

“Let me help!” Alessia shouts back, following me into the kitchen area, still draped in the blanket.

I turn the Sonos volume down via the app on my phone. “That’s better.”

“Interesting music,” Alessia says in a tone that tells me that perhaps it’s not her thing.

“It’s Korean house. I use a few tracks when I DJ.” I retrieve the eggs from the fridge. “Two eggs?”

“No, one.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Just one. I’m having two. You can make some toast. Bread is in the fridge, and the toaster is over there.”

Together we work in the kitchen, and I’m able to watch her. Using her long, nimble fingers, she fishes the toast out of the toaster and butters each slice.

“Here.” I take the two plates out of the warming drawer and place them on the counter, ready for toast.

She grins as I serve up the rest of our breakfast.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.” I abandon the frying pan in the sink, collect both plates, and usher her toward the dining table, where I’ve laid two places.

Alessia looks impressed.

Why does this make me feel like I’ve finally achieved something?

“Sit here. You can enjoy the view.”

* * *

“How was that?” Maxim asks.

They are seated at the large dining table, Alessia at the head, where she’s never sat before, and she’s enjoying the view, the seascape.

“Delicious. You are a man with many accomplishments.”

“You’d be amazed,” he says dryly, his voice a little husky. And for some reason his tone and the way he looks at her make her breath catch.

“Do you still want to go for a walk?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Taking his phone, he dials a number. Alessia wonders who he’s calling.

“Danny,” he says. “No. We’re fine. Can you bring a hair dryer over…oh, there are? Okay. Then I need a pair of Wellingtons or walking boots….” He looks directly at Alessia. “What size?” he asks.

She has no idea what he’s talking about.

“Shoe size,” he clarifies.

“Thirty-eight.”

“That’s, um…size five, and some socks if you have any. Yes. For a woman…It doesn’t matter. And a decent bloody warm coat…Yes. For a woman…Slim. Small. As soon as possible.” He listens for a moment. “Fantastic,” he says, and hangs up.

“I have a coat.”

“You won’t be warm enough. And I don’t know about the Albanian sock thing, but it’s cold out there.”

She flushes. She has only two pairs of socks because she can’t afford more—and she couldn’t ask Magda for another pair. Magda had done enough for her.

Dante and Ylli had confiscated her luggage, and when she’d arrived in Brentford, Magda had burned most of the clothes she’d been wearing. They were no longer fit to be worn.

“Who is Danny?”

“She lives not far from here,” Maxim says, directing his attention to the empty plates as he stands to clear the table.

“Let me,” she says, shocked that he’s clearing up. “I will wash them, too.” She takes the plates from him and places them in the sink.

“No. I’ll do this. There should be a hair dryer in the chest of drawers in the wardrobe in your room. Go dry your hair.”

“But—” Surely he’s not going to wash up! No man does that!

“No buts. I’ll do it. You’ve cleaned up after me often enough.”

“But it is my job.”

“Today it isn’t. You’re my guest. Go.” His tone is clipped. Stern. A frisson of apprehension runs up her spine. “Please,” he adds.

“Okay,” she whispers, and hurries out of the kitchen, confused and wondering if he’s angry with her.

Please don’t be angry.

“Alessia,” he calls. She stops at the foot of the stairs and studies her feet. “Are you okay?” She nods before she dashes up the stairs.

* * *

What the fuck?

What did I say? I watch her retreating figure noting that she deliberately avoids eye contact with me.

Shit.

I’ve upset her, but I don’t know how or why. I’m tempted to go after her but decide against it and begin to load the dishwasher and clean up.

Twenty minutes later, as I’m putting away the frying pan, the entry phone rings.

Danny.

I glance up at the stairs, hoping that Alessia will appear, but she doesn’t. I press the buzzer to let Danny in and turn off the music, knowing she will not approve.

* * *

The hair dryer’s high-pitched wheeze rings in her ears as Alessia brushes and brushes her hair beneath its heat. With each stroke her heartbeat settles to a more even pace.

He had sounded like her father.

And she’d reacted the way she’d always reacted to her father, by getting out of his way. Baba has never forgiven her or her mother that his only child is a girl. Though it’s her poor mother who bears the brunt of his anger.

But Mister Maxim is nothing like her father.

Nothing.

She finishes her hair and knows that the only way to restore her equilibrium and forget about her family for a while is to play the piano. Music is her escape. It’s been her only escape.

When she comes back downstairs, Mister Maxim has disappeared. She wonders where, but her fingers are itching to play. She sits down at the little white upright, lifts the lid, and with no preamble launches into her angry Bach Prelude in C Minor. The music blazes through the room in hues of brilliant orange and red, burning away any thoughts of her father and setting her free.