That’s why I’m here.

I like her. Really like her. And I want to protect her from all the shit she’s endured….And I have so much, and she has nothing.

I snort. It’s a redistribution of wealth. Yes. How altruistic and socialist of me. My mother would not be thrilled. That thought makes me smile.

I find a couple of dresses I like, one in black and one in emerald green, and hand them to the assistant.

Will Alessia like these?

I sit down in a convenient chair outside the dressing-room area and wait, trying to put aside my disquieting thoughts.

Alessia appears wearing the green dress.

Wow.

I feel a little light-headed.

I’ve never seen her in a dress.

Her hair cascades down below her breasts, which are swathed in a soft fabric that clings.

Everywhere.

Breasts. Flat stomach. Hips. The dress stops short at her knees, and she’s barefoot. She looks sensational—a little older, maybe, but more womanly and sophisticated.

“It is not too low?” Alessia asks, tugging at the neckline.

“No.” My voice is hoarse, and I cough to clear it. “No, it’s fine.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes. Yes. I like it a lot. You look lovely.”

She gives me a shy smile. I hold up my finger and motion for her to turn around. She does quickly and giggles.

The fabric clings to her arse, too.

Yep. She’s gorgeous.

“I approve,” I say, and she heads back into the dressing room.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Alessia has a new wardrobe: three pairs of jeans, four long-sleeved tops in various colors, two skirts, two plain shirts, two cardigans, two dresses, two sweaters, a coat, socks, tights, and underwear.

“That’s one thousand three hundred and fifty-five pounds, please.” Sarah beams at Maxim.

“What!” Alessia squeaks.

Maxim hands over his credit card, pulls Alessia into his arms, and kisses her long and hard. She is breathless when he releases her, and she stares down at the floor, mortified. She cannot face Sarah. In Alessia’s town, holding hands in public is considered forward. Kissing. No. Never. Never in public.

“Hey,” Maxim murmurs, putting his hand beneath her chin to pull her face up.

“You spend too much,” she whispers.

“Not for you. Please. Don’t be angry with me.”

* * *

Her gaze lingers on my face, but I have no idea what she’s thinking.

“Thank you,” she says finally.

“You are most welcome,” I reply, relieved. “Now we’re going to get you some decent shoes.”

Alessia’s face lights up like a summer’s day.

Ah. Shoes…the way to every woman’s heart.

* * *

In a nearby shoe shop, she chooses a pair of stout ankle boots in black.

“You’ll need more than one pair of shoes,” I say.

“These are all I need.”

“Here, these are nice.” I hold up a pair of ballet flats. I wish they stocked high-heeled fuck-me shoes, but alas—everything in the store is practical.

Alessia hesitates.

“I like these,” I say, hoping my opinion will influence her decision.

“Okay. If you like them. They are nice.”

I grin. “And I like these.” I hold up a brown leather knee-high boot with a heel.

“Maxim,” Alessia objects.

“Please.”

She gives me a reluctant smile. “Okay.”

* * *

“We can leave your boots for recycling here,” Maxim says as they stand at the sales counter. Alessia looks down at the new boots she’s wearing and then at her old pair. They are all she has left of her clothes from home.

“I would like to keep them,” she says.

“Why?”

“They are from Albania.”

“Oh.” He looks surprised. “Well, perhaps we can get them resoled.”

“Resoled? What is this?”

“Repaired. The bottom of the shoe replaced. Understand?”

“Yes. Yes,” she replies, excited. “Resoled.”

She watches as Maxim hands over his credit card once more.

How can she ever repay him?

One day she’ll earn enough money to pay him back. In the meantime she has to think of something she could do for him. “Remember, I want to cook,” she says.

This is one way.

“Today?” Maxim asks as he picks up her bags.

“Yes. I want to cook for you. To say thank you. Tonight.”

“Okay. Let’s take these bags back to the car, and we can shop for food after we’ve had some lunch.”

They dump the bags in the small trunk of the car, and as they walk hand in hand to a restaurant, Alessia tries not to dwell on Maxim’s generosity. It is rude in her culture to reject a gift, but she knows what her father would call her if he knew what she was doing. He would either kill her or have a heart attack. Probably both. She’s already dishonored him, and until recently she had the bruises to prove it. Once again she wishes he were more open-minded—and less violent.

Baba.

Her mood nosedives.

* * *

We lunch at Rick Stein’s Café. Alessia’s quiet, and when we order our food, she’s a little subdued. I wonder if it’s because I’ve spent money on her clothes. Once the waitress has taken our order, I reach over and take Alessia’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Alessia, don’t worry about the money. For the clothes. Please.” She gives me a tight smile and takes a sip of her sparkling water.

“What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head.

“Tell me,” I insist.

She shakes her head again, turning away to stare out the window.

Something is off.

Shit. Have I upset her?

“Alessia?”

She turns back to face me, and she looks distraught.

Fuck.

“What is it?”

She gazes at me, dark eyes clouded with misery, and it’s like a knife to my gut.

“Tell me.”

“I cannot pretend I am on holiday,” she says softly. “You buy me all these things, and I can never pay you the money. And I don’t know what will happen to me when we go back to London. And I am thinking about my father and what he would do to me”—she pauses and swallows—“and to you, if he knew what we had done. I know what he would call me. And I’m tired. I’m tired of being afraid.” Her voice is a raw whisper, and tears shine in her eyes. She looks directly at me. “That is what I am thinking.”

I stare back. Paralyzed, but empty and aching. For her.

“That’s a lot to think about,” I murmur.

The waitress returns with our food and cheerily places my Californian chicken sandwich in front of me and the butternut squash soup in front of Alessia. “Everything okay?” she asks.

“Yes. Fine. Thanks,” I say, dismissing her.

Alessia picks up her spoon and stirs her soup while I’m helpless and floundering for something to say. Her voice barely audible, she says, “I am not your problem, Maxim.”

“I never said you were.”

“That is not what I mean.”

“I know what you mean, Alessia. Whatever happens between us, I want to be sure you’re okay.”

She gives me a sad smile. “I am grateful. Thank you.”

Her response angers me. I don’t want her gratitude. I think she’s got some old-fashioned notion about being my mistress. And what her father has to do with us, I don’t know. It’s 2019. Not 1819.

What the hell does she want?

Fuck. What do I want?

I watch as she lifts her soup spoon to her lips, her face pale and sad.

At least she’s eating.

What do I want? From her?

I’ve had her beautiful body.

And it’s not enough.

It hits me. Like a sledgehammer. Right between the eyes.

I want her heart.

Fuck.

Chapter Seventeen

Love. Confusing. Irrational. Frustrating…Exhilarating. This is what it feels like. I am madly, crazily, ridiculously in love with the woman sitting opposite me.

My daily. Alessia Demachi.

I’ve felt like this since I first laid eyes on her standing in my hallway clutching a broom. I remember how disconcerted I was….How angry. How the walls closed in on me and I had to escape because I didn’t understand the depth of my feelings. This is what I was running from. I thought I was just wildly attracted to her. But no. It’s not just her body I crave. It’s never been just that. I’m drawn to her in a way I’ve never been to any other woman. I love her. That’s why I went after her when she fled to Brentford. That’s why I brought her here. I want to protect her. I want her happy. I want her with me.

Fuck.

It’s a revelation.

And she has no idea who I am or what I do. And I know so little about her. In fact, I have no idea how she feels about me. Yet she’s here with me, so surely that means something. I think she likes me. But then again what choice does she have? I’m her only option. She was afraid, and she had nowhere to run. And on some level I knew that, and I tried to stay away from her, but I couldn’t, because she’s carved her way into my heart.

I’ve fallen in love with my cleaner.

Well, this is a fine fucking mess.

And now she’s finally opening up to me—but in spite of all I’ve done, she’s still afraid. I’ve not done enough. My appetite evaporates.

“I am sorry. I did not want to be the kill buzz,” she says, interrupting my thoughts.

“Kill buzz?”

She frowns. “My English?”

“I think you mean buzzkill.”