When she opens her eyes, Maxim is watching her.

“That was incredible,” he whispers.

“Thank you,” she says.

He takes a step closer and strokes her cheek with the back of his finger, then tilts her chin up so she’s lost in his magnetic gaze. His eyes are the most spectacular color. Up close she notices that the irises are a darker green around the edge—the color of a Kuk?s fir—while toward the dilating pupil they’re lighter, like a fern in the spring. When he leans down, she thinks he’s going to kiss her. But he doesn’t.

“I don’t know what I did to upset you,” he says.

She puts her fingers over his mouth, silencing him.

“You did nothing wrong,” she whispers. His lips purse into a kiss against her fingertips, and she removes her hand.

“Well, if I did, I’m sorry. Now, do you want to go for a walk on the beach?”

She beams at him. “Yes.”

“Okay. You need to wrap up warm.”

* * *

Alessia is impatient. She practically pulls me down the stony path. At the bottom we step onto the beach, and Alessia can contain herself no more. She releases my hand and runs toward the raging sea, her hat flying off and her hair whipping in the wind.

“The sea, the sea!” she cries, and twirls around, her arms in the air. Her earlier pique is forgotten, her smile is wide and her face bright, lit from within by her joy. I stride across the coarse sand and rescue her discarded woolly hat. “The sea!” she shouts again above the roar of the water, and she gesticulates wildly, her arms like a crazy windmill, welcoming each wave as it crashes to the shore.

It’s impossible not to smile. Her unbridled enthusiasm for this first-time event is too appealing and too affecting. I grin as she squeals and dances back to avoid the breakers on the shoreline. She looks ridiculous, dressed in oversize Wellingtons and an oversize coat. Her face is flushed, her nose pink, and she is utterly breathtaking. My heart clenches.

She runs toward me with childish abandon and grabs my hand. “The sea!” she cries once more, and drags me to the crashing waves. And I go willingly, surrendering myself to her joy.

Chapter Thirteen

They walk hand in hand along the coastal path and stop by an old ruin.

“What is this place?” Alessia asks.

“It’s an abandoned tin mine.”

Alessia and Maxim lean against the chimney stack, staring out at a choppy sea that’s crested with white surf as the chill wind whistles between them. “It is so beautiful here,” she says. “It is wild. It reminds me of my home.”

Except I’m happier here. I feel…safe.

That’s because I am with Mister Maxim.

“I love this place, too. It’s where I grew up.”

“In the house where we are staying?”

He looks away. “No. My brother built that quite recently.” Maxim’s mouth turns down, and he seems lost.

“You have a brother?”

“I did,” he whispers. “He died.” He digs his hands deep into his coat pockets and stares out at the sea, his face bleak, carved like stone.

“I am sorry,” she says, and from his pained, raw expression she suspects that his brother’s death is a recent event.

Reaching out, she places a hand on his arm. “You miss him,” she says.

“Yes,” Maxim whispers, turning his face toward her. “I do. I loved him.”

She is surprised by his candor. “Do you have other family?”

“A sister. Maryanne.” His fond smile is brief. “And then there’s my mother.” His tone becomes dismissive.

“Your father?”

“My father died when I was sixteen.”

“Oh. I am sorry. Your sister and mother, do they live here?”

“They used to. They visit sometimes,” he says. “Maryanne works and lives in London. She’s a doctor.” He flashes her a proud smile.

“Ua.” Alessia is impressed. “And your mother?”

“She’s mostly in New York.” His answer is curt. He doesn’t want to discuss his mother.

And she doesn’t want to discuss her father.

“There are mines near Kuk?s,” she says to change the subject, and she gazes up at the gray-stoned chimney stack. It’s like the chimney on the road to Kosovo.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“What do they mine?”

“Krom. I don’t know the word.”

“Chromium?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know the English.”

“I think I’d better invest in an English-Albanian dictionary,” Maxim mutters. “Come on, let’s walk into the village. We can have lunch.”

“Village?” Alessia has seen no sign of any dwellings on their walk.

“Trevethick. It’s a small village just over the hill. Popular with tourists.”

Alessia falls into step beside him.

“The photographs in your apartment, are they from here?” she asks.

“The landscapes. Yes. Yes, they are.” Maxim beams. “You’re observant,” he adds, and from his raised brows Alessia can tell he’s impressed. She gives him a shy smile, and he takes her gloved hand.

They emerge from the path onto a lane too narrow to have sidewalks. The hedgerows on either side are high but cut back from the road. The brambles and bare-twigged bushes are orderly and trimmed, and here and there they are covered in clumps of snow. They walk down and around a sweeping corner, and the village of Trevethick appears at the bottom of the lane. The stone and whitewashed houses are like nothing Alessia’s seen before. They look small and old, but charming nonetheless. The place is quaint—pristine—with no trash anywhere. Where she comes from, there is garbage and construction debris in the streets, and most of the buildings are built from concrete.

At the waterfront two stone quays stretch out to embrace the harbor where three large fishing boats are moored. Around the waterfront are a few shops—a couple of boutiques, a convenience store, a small art gallery—and two pubs. One called The Watering Hole, the other, The Two-Headed Eagle. A sign hangs outside, bearing a shield Alessia recognizes. “Look!” She points at the emblem. “Your tattoo.”

Maxim winks at her. “You hungry?”

“Yes,” she replies. “That was a long walk.”

“Good day, milord.” An elderly man in a black scarf, a green waxed coat, and a flat cap is leaving The Two-Headed Eagle. He is followed by a shaggy dog of indeterminate breed wearing a red coat with the name BORIS embroidered in gold across the back.

“Father Trewin.” Maxim shakes his hand.

“How are you bearing up, young man?” He pats Maxim on the arm.

“Good, thank you.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. And who is this fine young lady?”

“Father Trewin, our vicar, may I introduce Alessia Demachi, my…friend, visiting from overseas.”

“Good afternoon, my dear.” Trewin holds out his hand.

“Good afternoon,” she says, shaking his hand, surprised and pleased that he would address her directly.

“And how are you enjoying Cornwall?”

“It is lovely here.”

Trewin gives her a benign smile and turns to Maxim. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that we’ll see you at Sunday service tomorrow?”

“We’ll see, Father.”

“We lead by example, my son. Remember that.”

“I know. I know.” Maxim sounds resigned.

“Brisk day!” Father Trewin exclaims, moving on from that subject.

“Indeed.”

Trewin whistles to Boris, who has sat patiently waiting for their pleasantries to cease. “In case you’ve forgotten, service starts at ten sharp.” He gives them both a nod and heads on up the lane.

“Vicar is the priest, yes?” Alessia asks as Maxim opens the door to the pub and ushers her into the warmth.

“Yes. Are you religious?” he asks, surprising her.

“N—”

“Good afternoon, milord,” says a large man with red hair and a complexion to match, interrupting their conversation. He stands behind an impressive bar that is hung with decorative jugs and pint glasses. There’s a burning log fire at one end of the pub and several wooden high-backed benches on either side of a line of tables, most of which are occupied by men and women who could be locals or tourists, Alessia doesn’t know. From the ceiling hang fishermen’s ropes, nets, and tackle. The atmosphere is warm and friendly. There’s even a young couple kissing at the back. Embarrassed, Alessia looks away and sticks close to Mister Maxim.

* * *

“Hi, Jago,” I say to the barman. “Table for two for lunch?”

“Megan will sort you out.” Jago points to the far corner.

“Megan?”

Shit.

“Yeah, she’s working here now.”

Fuck.

I give Alessia a sideways glance and she looks puzzled. “Are you sure you’re hungry?”

“Yes,” Alessia replies.

“Doom Bar?” Jago asks, staring with overt appreciation at Alessia.

“Yes, please.” I try not to glare at him.

“And for the lady?” Jago’s voice softens, his eyes still on Alessia.

“What would you like to drink?” I ask.