“Is there any music you’d like to hear?” I ask.

“You choose.”

I select a mellow playlist and hit PLAY. RY X blasts out of the speakers overhead, making us both jump. I turn it down. “Sorry about that. What are you cooking?”

“A surprise,” she says with a coquettish glance over her shoulder.

“I love surprises. It smells good. Can I do anything to help?”

“No. This is my thank-you. Would you like to drink?”

I laugh. “Yes. I would like a drink. Do you mind that I’m correcting your English?”

“No. I want to learn.”

“?‘Would you like a drink?’ is what we say.”

“Okay.” She flashes me another smile.

“And yes, I would. Thank you.”

She sets the pan aside and from the counter takes an open bottle of red wine and pours me a glass.

“I’ve been reading about Albania.”

She whips her eyes to mine, her face lighting up like the early dawn. “Home,” she whispers.

“Tell me more about life in Kuk?s.”

Maybe it’s because she’s distracted while cooking supper, but she finally opens up and starts to describe the house she lived in with her father and mother. It’s beside a vast lake, surrounded by fir trees….And while she’s telling me, I watch and marvel at how she moves about behind the counter with such ease and grace, as if she’s been cooking in this kitchen for years. Whether it’s grating nutmeg or adjusting the timing on the oven. She’s like a professional. And as she cooks, she tops up my wine, washes dishes, and gives me insights into her claustrophobic life in Kuk?s.

“So you don’t drive?”

“No,” she answers as she lays the table for us.

“Does your mother drive?”

“Yes. But not often.” She smiles when she sees my consternation. “You know that most Albanians did not drive until the mid-1990s. Before the fall of the Communists. We had no cars.”

“Wow. I had no idea.”

“I would like to learn.”

“To drive? I’ll teach you.”

She’s taken aback. “In your fast car? I do not think so!” She laughs as if I’ve suggested flying to the moon for lunch.

“I could teach you.” We have enough land here, we don’t need to be on the public highway. We’ll be safe. A vision of her driving one of Kit’s cars, maybe his Morgan, comes to mind. Yes. That would be suitable for a countess.

Countess?

“This will take another fifteen minutes or so to cook,” she says, and she taps her lips with her finger. There’s something on her mind.

“What would you like to do?”

Alessia chews her bottom lip.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I’d like to talk to Magda.”

Of course she wants to talk to her. Magda’s probably her only bloody friend. Why didn’t I think of that?

“Sure. Here.” I unplug my phone and find Magda’s contact details. When the call connects, I hand the phone to Alessia, who gives me a grateful smile.

“Magda…Yes, it’s me.” Alessia moves to sit down on the sofa while I try and fail not to eavesdrop. I imagine that Magda is relieved to hear that Alessia is still in one piece. “No. Fine.” Alessia glances up at me, her eyes shining. “Very fine,” she says with a wide grin, and I find myself reciprocating.

I’ll take “very fine” any day.

She laughs at something Magda says, and my heart swells. It’s so good to hear her laugh; she doesn’t do it often enough.

As she talks, I try not to watch her, but I can’t resist. Unconsciously she winds a lock of hair that’s escaped from her plait around her fingers as she tells Magda about the sea and her impromptu dip in it yesterday.

“No. It’s beautiful here. It reminds me of home.” She looks up at me again, and I’m caught in her all-consuming gaze.

Home.

I could make this her home….

My mouth dries.

Mate! You are getting way ahead of yourself!

I look away, breaking the spell of Alessia’s stare. I’m troubled by where my thoughts are heading and take a sip of wine. My reaction is all too new and too presumptuous.

“How is Michal? And Logan?” she asks, hungry for news, and she’s soon lost in a lively conversation about packing and Canada—and weddings.

Alessia laughs again, and her voice changes, becoming softer…sweeter. She’s talking to Michal, and I know from her tone that she’s exceptionally fond of him. I shouldn’t be jealous—he’s a kid—but maybe I am? I’m not sure I appreciate this new and unwelcome feeling.

“Be good, Michal….I miss you….Bye.”

She glances at me once more. “Okay. I will….Good-bye, Magda.” She hangs up and wanders back to me to hand me my phone. She looks happy. I’m glad she made the call.

“All good?” I ask.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“And with Magda?”

“She is packing. She’s happy and sad to be leaving England. And she is relieved to have the security man near.”

“Great. She must be excited to start a new life.”

“She is. Her fiancé is a good man.”

“What does he do?”

“Something to do with computers.”

“I should get you a phone, and then you can speak to her when you want.”

She looks appalled. “No. No. That is too much. You cannot do that.”

I raise a brow, knowing full well that I can.

She arches a brow in return, displeased, but I’m saved by the ping of the oven timer.

“Dinner is cooked.”

* * *

Alessia places the casserole dish on the table beside the salad she’s made. She’s pleased that the yogurt crust has risen into a crisp, golden brown dome. Maxim is impressed. “It looks good,” he says, and Alessia suspects he’s being overeffusive.

She serves him a portion and sits down. “It is lamb, rice, and yogurt with a few secret…um…ingredients. We say tav? kosi.”

“We don’t bake our yogurt here. We put it on our muesli.”

She laughs.

He takes a bite and closes his eyes as he savors the food. “Mmm.” He opens his eyes and nods enthusiastically. He swallows. “This is delicious. You weren’t lying when you said you could cook!”

Alessia blushes under his warm gaze.

“You can cook for me anytime.”

“I would like that,” she murmurs. She would like that very much.

* * *

We talk and drink and eat. I ply her with wine and questions. Many questions. About her childhood. School. Friends. Family. Reading about Albania has inspired me. Sitting across from Alessia is inspiring, too; she’s so full of life. Her eyes are shining and expressive as she talks. And she’s animated, using her hands to demonstrate a point.

She’s captivating.

Occasionally she will tuck that stray strand of hair away, her fingers skimming around the shell of her ear.

I’d like her fingers on me.

I anticipate unraveling her plait later and running my fingers through her soft, luscious hair. It’s heartwarming to see her so carefree and talkative for a change. From the sweet flush on her cheeks, I suspect it might be the wine. I take a sip of the tasty Italian Barolo that’s working its magic.

Replete, I push my plate away and refill her glass. “Tell me about a typical day in Albania.”

“For me?”

“Yes.”

“There is not much to tell. If I am working, my father will drive me to the school. And when I am home, I help my mother. Washing. Cleaning. Like I do for you.” Espresso eyes peek up, unmasking me with her knowing look. It’s sexy as hell. “And that is all I do,” she adds.

“Sounds rather dull.” Too dull for bright Alessia. And I suspect a little lonely.

“It is.” She laughs.

“From what I’ve read, northern Albania is quite conservative.”

“Conservative.” She frowns and takes a quick sip of her wine. “Do you mean traditional?”

“Yes.”

“Where I am from, we are traditional.” She stands to clear the crockery from the table. “But Albania is changing. In Tiran?—”

“Tirana?”

“Yes. It’s a modern city. It is not so traditional or conservative there.” She puts the plates in the sink.

“Have you been?”

“No.”

“Would you like to go?”

She takes her seat once more and tilts her head to the side, brushing her index finger across her lips. Her look is wistful for a brief moment. “Yes. One day.”

“Have you traveled at all?”

“No. Only in books.” Her smile brightens the room. “I have traveled all over the world in books. And I’ve been to America watching TV.”

“American TV?”

“Yes. Netflix. HBO.”

“In Albania?”

She grins at my surprise. “Yes. We have television!”

“So, back home, what did you do for kicks?” I ask.

“Kicks?”

“Fun. You know. Fun.”

She looks a little puzzled. “I read. Watch TV. Practice my music. Sometimes I listen to the radio with my mother. The BBC World Service.”

“Do you go out?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Sometimes. In the summer we will walk in the town in the evening. But it is with my family. And sometimes I play the piano.”

“A recital? For the public?”

“Yes. At the school and weddings.”

“Your parents must be proud.”

A shadow crosses her face. “Yes. They were. Are,” she corrects herself, and her voice falters and dips, becoming soft and sad. “My father, he likes the attention.” Her demeanor changes, and she seems to fold in on herself.