“Yes. I had the same idea. This place exceeds all expectations.”

He eyes me speculatively. “Forgive me, Trevethick. But I have to know. Why are you doing this?”

“What?”

“Chasing this girl all over Europe? Why?”

“Love,” I state, as if it’s the most understandable reason in the world.

Why doesn’t he get this?

“Love?”

“Yep. It’s that simple.”

“For your daily?”

I roll my eyes. What is it about the fact that Alessia used to clean for me? And still wants to clean for me! “Just deal with it, Tom. I’m going to marry her.”

He splutters into his drink, spitting red liquid over the table, and I wonder again at the wisdom of bringing him on this journey. “Steady on, Trevethick. She’s a pretty girl, from what I remember, but is that wise?”

I shrug. “I love her.”

He shakes his head, bemused.

“Tom, just because you haven’t got the nerve to do the decent thing and pop the fucking question to Henrietta—who is a saint to put up with you—don’t judge.”

He frowns, and a pugnacious gleam lights up his eyes. “Listen, old boy, I wouldn’t be doing my duty as a friend if I didn’t state the fucking obvious.”

“The fucking obvious?”

“You’re in mourning, Maxim.” His voice is surprisingly gentle. “Have you considered that this sudden infatuation is part of your way of dealing with your brother’s death?”

“This has nothing to do with Kit, and I’m not fucking infatuated. You don’t know her like I do. She’s an exceptional woman. And I’ve known countless women. She’s different. She’s not bothered by trivial shit….She’s smart. Funny. Courageous. And you should hear her play the piano. She’s a fucking genius.”

“Really?”

“Yes. This is the real deal. I’m seeing the world in a whole different light since I met her. And questioning my place in it.”

“Steady on.”

“No, Tom. You steady on. She needs me. It’s good to be needed, and I need her.”

“But that’s no basis for a relationship.”

I grit my teeth. “It’s not just that. You’ve fought for your country. You now run a successful business. What the fuck have I ever done?”

“Well, you’re about to take your place in the history of the Trevethick family, and preserve that legacy for generations to come.”

“I know.” I sigh. “It’s daunting, and I want someone I trust beside me. Someone who loves me. Someone who appreciates me for more than my wealth and title. Is that too much to ask?”

He frowns.

“You’ve found that person,” I add. “And you take Henrietta for granted.”

He exhales and stares down at the remains of his drink.

“You’re right,” he mumbles. “I love Henry. I should do the decent thing.”

“You should.”

He nods. “Okay. Let’s order another.” He signals to the waiter for another round of drinks, and I wonder if I’ll have to deal with this level of doubt about Alessia from all my friends…from my family.

“Make them doubles,” I call.

* * *

Alessia wakes and realizes the car has stopped. The engine is off. The lid of the trunk lifts, and Anatoli is standing over her once more. “Maybe you have learned some manners?”

Alessia gives him a venomous look and sits up, rubbing her fists in her eyes.

“Get out. We’ll spend the night here.” He doesn’t offer her his hand this time but reaches in and grabs his coat from her and slips it on. The biting wind wraps around her, and she shivers. She aches everywhere, but she climbs out of the trunk and, feeling gloomy, stands to one side, waiting for his next move.

Anatoli’s gaze follows her, and his lips press into a thin, angry line. “Feeling a little more docile now?” he sneers.

Alessia says nothing.

He snorts and reaches for their luggage. Alessia glances around. They are in a parking lot in the center of a city. An imposing hotel looms in the near distance. It’s several stories high and lit up like a Hollywood movie with the word WESTIN crowning its fa?ade. Abruptly Anatoli grabs her hand and tugs her toward the entrance. He doesn’t break his stride, so she has to scurry to keep up.

The foyer is all marble, mirrors, and modernity, and Alessia spots the discreet sign: they are in the Westin Zagreb. Anatoli checks them in to the hotel in what sounds like flawless Croatian, and a few minutes later they are riding up to the fifteenth floor in the elevator.

Anatoli has booked them a luxurious suite that is furnished in creams and browns. There’s a couch, a desk, and a small table, and through the sliding doors Alessia can see one bed.

One.

No!

She remains standing, tired and helpless, just within the threshold.

Anatoli shrugs off his coat and throws it onto the couch. “Are you hungry?” he asks, opening the doors of the dresser beneath the TV. Eventually he finds the minibar. “Well?” he snaps.

Alessia nods.

Anatoli motions with his head toward a leather-bound book on the desk. “We’ll get room service. Choose something. And take off your coat.” Alessia picks up the book and leafs through the pages to the in-room-dining section. The entries are in Croatian and English; she scans the selections and immediately chooses the most expensive item on the menu. She has no compunction about having Anatoli spend his money. She frowns, remembering how she resisted Maxim’s attempts to pay….Anatoli has retrieved two small bottles of scotch and is unscrewing the top from each in turn. Yes, Alessia has no compunction at all. She’s a kidnap victim, and he’s meted out enough physical abuse on her body already. He owes her. But with Maxim…the balance was all wrong. She had owed him. So much. Her Mister. She lets him slip quietly from her mind, to be mourned later.

“I’ll have the New York steak,” she declares. “With an extra salad. And fries. And a glass of red wine.” Anatoli turns to regard her with surprise.

“Wine?”

“Yes. Wine.”

He considers her for a moment. “You have become very Western.”

She stands taller. “I would like a glass of French red wine.”

“French now?” He raises a brow.

“Yes.” And as an afterthought she adds, “Please.”

“Okay, we’ll get a bottle.” He lifts his shoulder in a nonchalant shrug, and he sounds so reasonable.

But he’s not. He’s a monster.

He pours both whiskeys into a glass and watches her as he reaches for the phone. “You know, you’re a very attractive woman, Alessia.”

She freezes. What now?

“Are you still a virgin?” His voice is soft, cajoling.

She gasps and feels a little faint. “Of course,” she breathes, attempting to look outraged and embarrassed at once.

He cannot know the truth.

His gaze hardens. “You seem different.”

“I am. I’ve had my eyes opened.”

“By someone?”

“Just…by my experiences,” she whispers, wishing she had never responded. She’s antagonizing a snake.

Anatoli dials room service and orders their meal while Alessia removes her coat and sits down on the couch to watch him warily. When he finishes his call, he grabs the TV remote, switches on the local news, and sits at the desk with his drink. For a while he watches the news, ignoring her, occasionally sipping his whiskey. Alessia is relieved that his attention is elsewhere. She watches the TV as well, trying to understand the newscaster, and she catches a few words. She concentrates; she doesn’t want her mind to wander. It will only wander back to Maxim, and she refuses to grieve his loss in front of Anatoli.

When the program is over, he turns his attention back to Alessia. “So you ran away from me?” he says.

Is he talking about yesterday?

“When you left Albania.” He takes a last swig of scotch.

“You threatened to break my fingers.”

He rubs his chin, thoughtful for a moment. “Alessia…I—” He stops.

“I don’t want excuses, Anatoli. There’s no excuse for treating another human being the way you have treated me. Look at my neck.” She pulls down her sweater, revealing the bruises he left yesterday, and raises her chin, making them conspicuous.

He flushes.

There’s a discreet knock on the door, and with a frustrated glance at Alessia, Anatoli retreats to open it. A young man dressed in Westin livery is outside with a dining cart. Anatoli beckons him in and stands back as the server transforms the cart into a table. It’s covered in a white linen tablecloth and plush place settings for two. There’s a jaunty single yellow rose in a ceramic vase, striving to represent a little romance.

Ironic.