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“I think so. I ran for my life. I didn’t have time to check…” The words trail off as if this is a failing.
No!
I haul her into my lap and wrap my arms around her. “I didn’t mean to imply—God, Alessia. I’m so glad you escaped. Heaven knows what would have…” My words die as horrific scenarios scroll through my head. “Look, I don’t think it’s a good idea that you get involved in that gruesome world again. Even from a distance. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you because of your search.”
She stiffens in my arms.
“I’m not going to lose you again.” I tighten my grip on her and bury my nose in her hair. “Please.”
“But—”
“No. Alessia.” I breathe in her scent. “The answer’s no. It’s too big a risk. I’ll talk to Tom. His company does PI work too. I’m not sure if they locate missing persons, but perhaps he can help.”
She pulls away, her dark, dark eyes luminous, and I don’t know if she’ll fight me on this. “Thank you,” she says and wraps her arms around my neck. “If Tom can find her—” Her breath is warm against my throat, but her voice catches. “I… I was lucky. And I feel guilty. I managed to escape.”
My blood curdles in my veins. “Oh God. No. Never feel like that. Jesus, Alessia.” If those thugs had caught her. I close my eyes again, imagining all the circles of hell—and Alessia in the infernal heart of the worst of them. “Don’t ever feel like that, sweetheart. Ever. I’m not asking. I’m telling you. Those men were monsters.” I cradle her head in my hands, and she turns her eyes to mine.
“Okay,” she whispers, and after a beat, her fingers twist in my hair, and she draws my lips to hers.
“My coffee is cold.” I sweep my nose down Alessia’s as I lie beside her, spent.
She giggles. “I can make you some more. And some breakfast.”
“No. Don’t go. I’ll make it. And some for you.” I kiss her cheek.
“No!” Her fingers tighten in my hair, scraping my scalp. “Don’t go.” She presses her fantastic breasts into my chest and winds her leg around my hip.
Oh boy… again!
I stand beneath the shower and wash away my hangover, feeling more settled.
It’s the sex.
Twice in one morning—I can get on board with that.
Alessia is voracious. Who knew? I grin into the water cascading over me.
She seems much happier today, and my mind turns to her emotional state last night. I think she’s suffering from being cooped up, a lack of friends, and her survivor’s guilt. Maybe it’s reminders of my old life too.
Alessia and I are still getting to know each other. But she’s usually so self-contained and stoic, so her outburst was a surprise.
I’m glad we talked, and I’ll call Tom today and get the ball rolling on what’s probably a futile search—but for Alessia’s sake, and her friend’s sake, we can try.
I turn off the shower, stagger out, and inspect my chin, ready to shave.
No. Not today.
I leave the stubble—my wife likes it—and head back into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around my waist. The bed is already made.
You can take the girl out of Albania… I smile.
I’m glad she’s out of Albania.
With me.
But I’m not sure what to think of her mission. Is it wise? I imagine it’ll be fruitless. How can you find a trafficked, undocumented immigrant?
We can try from a safe distance because there’s no way I’m letting anyone pull her back into that hideous underworld.
I need to keep her safe.
Oliver is running through the monthly profit-and-loss accounts for each of the individual estates. We’re in surprisingly good shape, and I know my instinct to leave everything well alone until I understood how it all works was a good one.
“So we’re not making massive profits on any of the houses, but it’s enough,” Oliver says.
“I’ve been thinking of a way to plow these profits back into each of the estates.”
Oliver raises a brow, surprised by my rare display of entrepreneurial spirit, so much so that I want to laugh. “I’m thinking gin, Oliver. Trevethick gin.”
“Now, that is an interesting idea.”
“I’ll talk to Abigail Chenoweth at Rosperran about her potato crop. And Michael at the Hall about the north pasture barn.”
Oliver nods. “That could be a good place for a still.”
* * *
Alessia presses the intercom on the anonymous-looking door in a backstreet in Covent Garden that bears the discreet sign: MPPI. Maddox Peacock Private Investigators. “Hello,” answers a gruff, disembodied voice.
“Hello. My name is Alessia Dem…Trevelyan. I have an appointment.” She didn’t have the courage to tell Maxim she’d already made the appointment to see the private investigator.
What harm could it do?
Two companies searching for Bleriana might yield better results.
She knows she’s acting in defiance of her husband, and she feels guilty, but as Maxim himself once told her—it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
