Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Could this be any more illicit? She’s so close but so unattainable. She moves to plump the black scatter cushions on the couch, and her housecoat swings forward and stretches out across her backside, betraying the pink underwear beneath.
My breathing shallows, and I have to suppress a groan.
I’m a fucking pervert.
She finishes with the sofa, and her eyes stray toward me. I endeavor to look engrossed in the spreadsheet in my hand while the hairs on the back of my neck rise to attention. Taking the can of polish, she sprays some onto the cloth she’s holding and heads to the piano. With another quick, anxious glance at me, she begins the slow process of buffing it to a brilliant shine. She stretches across it, the housecoat rising to above the backs of her knees.
Oh, God!
With a deliberate and even pace, she works her way around the piano, buffing and polishing, her breathing becoming faster and harder with the exertion. It’s agonizing. I close my eyes and imagine how I could elicit the same response from her.
Shit. I cross my legs to hide my body’s natural reaction. This is getting farcical. She’s just cleaning my fucking piano.
She continues to dust the keyboard, though the keys make no sound. Her eyes shoot to me again, and I quickly look at the figures on the spreadsheet, which swim on the page, making no sense. When I dare to peer up at her, she’s bending down, her face pensive, and she seems to be appraising the manuscript that sits on the music rest. She’s looking at my composition, and her brow creases as if she’s concentrating hard.
Can she read music?
Is she reading my score?
She looks up and meets my gaze. Her eyes widen with embarrassment, and her tongue escapes from her mouth to lick her upper lip as a rosy flush stains her cheeks.
Fuck.
Averting her eyes, she bobs down behind the piano, presumably to dust the legs or the stool.
I cannot bear it.
My phone rings, startling me. It’s Oliver.
“Hi,” I say into the phone, my voice hoarse, and I’ve never been so grateful for the interruption. I have to get out of the drawing room.
Hell, I promised myself that I wouldn’t let her chase me out again.
“Trevethick?”
“Yes. Oliver. What is it?”
“We have a planning issue which I think is going to need your attention.”
I stalk into the hallway as Oliver drones on about soffits and load-bearing walls within the Mayfair development.
* * *
When he leaves the room, it’s as if a storm has passed overhead to wreak havoc elsewhere—in the hallway, perhaps. Alessia breathes a sigh of relief, grateful that he’s gone. She hears him on the phone, his voice deep but melodious. She doesn’t think she’s ever been so acutely aware of someone else before.
She must stop thinking about him and concentrate on cleaning! She finishes dusting the piano, though she can’t shake the uncanny feeling that he’d been watching her while she cleaned.
No. That’s impossible.
Why would he be watching me?
Maybe he’s checking on her cleaning capabilities like Mrs. Kingsbury. Alessia smiles at the silly idea and realizes she feels a great deal warmer than she did when she arrived. She isn’t sure if the heat is within the room or within herself.
Warmed by his presence.
Her ludicrous train of thought elicits another smile. As he’s out of the room, she seizes the opportunity to run and fetch the vacuum cleaner. The Mister is at the end of the hall leaning against the wall, all long legs and restless foot-tapping. He is talking into the phone in a low tone, but he watches her as she goes into the kitchen. She carries the vacuum cleaner into the living room to find him back at his desk but still talking on the phone. He rises when he sees her. “Hold on a minute, Oliver. Go ahead,” he says to her, and he waves in the direction of the room, granting Alessia permission to vacuum as he leaves once more. He’s undone the black hoodie he’s wearing. Underneath she sees a gray V-neck T-shirt that has a black winged coronet and LA 1781 written on it. She flushes as she notices a little chest hair peeking through the top of the V. In her mind she hears her mother’s voice scolding her in that tone she has: Alessia! What are you doing?
I am looking at a man, Mama.
A man I find attractive.
A man who makes my blood run hotter.
She imagines her mother’s scandalized expression, and it makes her smile.
Oh, Mama, it’s so different here in England. Men. Women. How they behave. Their interaction.
Alessia’s mind goes to a darker place. To him.
No. Do not think of that man.
She’s safe now, here in London with the Mister. And she must concentrate on keeping her job.