“Well done.” She beams, pleased that I’ve remembered her name, and it’s impossible not to return her smile. “That’s better,” she says. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.” Reaching up, she gives me a chaste kiss on the cheek. She turns and teeters on her high heels toward the lifts. I frown at her departing figure, watching her fine arse move beneath her red dress.

Find what I’m looking for? What the hell does that mean?

I’ve got all this. I’ve just had you. It will be someone else tomorrow. What more do I need?

For some unknown reason, her words irritate me, but I shake them off and head back to bed, relieved that she’s gone. As I strip off my jeans and slip between the sheets, her challenging parting words echo through my mind.

I hope you find what you’re looking for.

Where the fuck did that come from?

I’ve just inherited a vast estate in Cornwall, an estate in Oxfordshire, another in Northumberland, and a small portion of London—but at what cost?

Kit’s pale, lifeless face surfaces in my imagination.

Shit.

So many people are now relying on me, too many, far too many: tenant farmers, estate workers, household staff in four houses, the developers in Mayfair….

Hell.

Fuck you, Kit. Fuck you for dying.

I close my eyes as I fight back unshed tears, and with Heather’s parting words ringing in my head I fall into a stupor.

Chapter Two

Alessia digs her hands farther into the pockets of Michal’s old anorak in a vain attempt to warm her cold fingers. Huddled in her scarf, she trudges through the freezing winter drizzle toward the apartment block on Chelsea Embankment. Today is Wednesday, her second day here without Krystyna, and she is heading back to the big apartment with the piano.

In spite of the weather, she’s feeling a sense of achievement because she’s survived the cramped and crowded train journey without her usual anxiety. She’s beginning to understand that this is what London is like. There are too many people, too much noise, and too much traffic. But worst of all, no one speaks to anyone else, except to say “Excuse me” if they jostle her or “Move down the carriage, please.” Everyone hides behind their free newspaper or listens to music on headphones or stares at their phones or electronic books, avoiding all eye contact.

That morning Alessia had been lucky enough to find a seat on the train, but the woman beside her had spent much of the journey shrieking into her phone about her unsuccessful date the night before. Alessia had ignored her and read the free newspaper to improve her English, but she’d wished she could listen to music through headphones and not this woman’s loud whining. Once she finished the paper, she’d closed her eyes and daydreamed of majestic mountains dotted with snow and pastures where the air was scented with thyme and filled with the hum of honeybees. She misses home. She misses the peace and quiet. She misses her mother, and she misses her piano.

Her fingers flex in her pockets as she recalls her warm-up piece, hearing the notes loud and clear in her mind and seeing them in blazing color. How long has it been since she played? Her excitement builds as she thinks of the piano waiting for her in the apartment.

She makes her way through the entrance of the old building toward the elevator, barely able to contain her enthusiasm, and then up to the top-floor apartment. For a few hours on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, this wonderful place with its large airy rooms, dark wooden floors, and baby grand piano is all hers. She unlocks the door, poised to switch off the alarm, but to her surprise there’s no warning tone. Perhaps the system’s broken or it’s not been set. Or…No. She realizes to her horror that the owner must be at home. Listening hard, trying to detect any signs of life, she stands in the wide hallway that’s hung with black-and-white photographic landscapes. She hears nothing.

Mir?.

No. “Good.” English. Think in English. Whoever lives here must have gone to work and forgotten to set the alarm. She’s never met the man, but she knows he has a good job, because the apartment is huge. How else can he afford it? She sighs. He might be rich, but he’s a complete slob. She’s been here three times already, twice with Krystyna, and each time the apartment is a mess and requires hours of tidying and cleaning.

The gray day is seeping through the skylight at the end of the hall, so Alessia flicks the switch and the crystal chandelier above her bursts into life, illuminating the hallway. She peels off her woolen scarf and hangs it up with her anorak in the closet beside the front door. From her plastic shopping bag, she pulls out the old sneakers that Magda has given her, and after taking off her wet boots and socks she slips them on, grateful that they are dry so her frozen feet can warm up. Her thin jersey top and T-shirt are no match for the cold. She rubs her arms briskly to bring some life back into them as she makes her way through the kitchen into the laundry room. There she dumps her shopping bag on the counter. Out of it she pulls the ill-fitting nylon housecoat that Krystyna bequeathed her and puts it on, then fastens a pale blue scarf around her head in an effort to keep her thick braid in check. From the cupboard beneath the sink, she takes out the cleaning caddy, and from the top of the washing machine she grabs the laundry basket and heads straight to his bedroom. If she hurries, she can finish the apartment before it’s time to leave and the piano will be hers for a short while.

She opens the door but freezes on the threshold of the room.

He’s here.

The man!

Fast asleep facedown and sprawled naked across the large bed. She stands, shocked and fascinated at once, her feet rooted to the wooden floor as she stares. He’s stretched across the length of the bed, tangled in his duvet but naked…very naked. His face is turned toward her but covered by unkempt brown hair. One arm is beneath the pillow that supports his head, the other extended toward her. He has broad, defined shoulders, and on his biceps is an elaborate tattoo that is partially hidden by the bedding. His back is sun-kissed with a tan that fades as his hips narrow to dimples and to a pale, taut backside.

Backside.

He’s naked!

Lakuriq!

Zot!

His long, muscular legs disappear beneath a knot of gray duvet and silver silk bedspread, though his foot sticks out over the edge of the mattress. He stirs, the muscles in his back rippling, and his eyelids flicker open to reveal unfocused but brilliant green eyes. Alessia stops breathing, convinced he’ll be angry that she’s woken him. Their eyes meet, but he shifts and turns his face away. He settles down and goes back to sleep. Relieved, she exhales a deep breath.

Shyqyr Zotit!

Flushed with mortification, she tiptoes out of his bedroom and bolts up the long hall and into the living room, where she sets the cleaning caddy on the floor and begins to gather his discarded clothes.

He’s here? How can he still be in bed? At this hour?

Surely he’s late for work.

She glances at the piano, feeling cheated. Today was the day she was going to play. She didn’t have the nerve on Monday, and she longs to play. Today would have been the first time! In her head she hears Bach’s Prelude in C Minor. Her fingers tap out the notes in anger, and the melody resonates inside her head, in bright reds, yellows, and oranges, a perfect accompaniment to her resentment. The piece reaches its climax and then diminishes to a close as she throws a discarded T-shirt into the laundry basket.

Why does he have to be here?

She knows that her disappointment is irrational. This is his home. But focusing on her disappointment distracts her from thinking about him. He’s the first naked man she’s ever seen, a naked man with vivid green eyes—eyes the color of the still, deep waters of the Drin on a summer’s day. She frowns, not wanting the reminder of home. He had looked directly at her. Thank God he didn’t wake. Taking the laundry basket, she tiptoes to his half-open bedroom door and pauses to see if he’s still asleep. She hears the sound of the shower in the bathroom.

He’s awake!

She contemplates leaving the apartment but dismisses the idea. She needs this job, and if she were to leave, he might fire her.

Cautiously she opens the door and listens to the tuneless humming that echoes from his en suite bathroom. Heart racing, she ducks into the bedroom to collect his clothes that are scattered over the floor, then hurries back to the safety of the laundry room wondering why her heart is pounding.

She takes a deep, calming breath. It was a surprise finding him here asleep. Yes. That’s it. That’s all. It has nothing to do with the fact that she has seen him naked. It has nothing to do with a fine face, a straight nose, full lips, broad shoulders…muscular arms. Nothing. It was a shock. She never expected to encounter the owner of the apartment, and to see him like that is unsettling.

Yes. He’s handsome.

All of him. His hair, his hands, his legs, his backside…

Really handsome. And he had looked directly at her with such clear green eyes.

A darker memory surfaces in her mind. A memory from home: ice-blue eyes flinty with anger, fury raining down on her.

No. Don’t think of him!

She puts her head in her hands and rubs her forehead.