The Mister Read online E.L. James

Categories Genre: Chick Lit, Contemporary, Erotic, Romance Tags Authors:
Advertisement1

Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
<<<<93103111112113114115123133>159
Advertisement2


What?

“Shit!” I race out of the kitchen, along the west hallway, and bound up the back stairs toward the blue room with Jensen and Healey at my heels. My heart is pounding.

Bugger. Bugger. Bugger. I wanted to tell her. What must she be thinking?

Outside the blue room door, I stop and take a deep breath, ignoring the dogs, who have chased after me convinced some new game is afoot.

Alessia’s had a horrific scare today. Now she’s in a place she doesn’t know, with people she doesn’t know. She’s probably utterly overwhelmed.

And she’s going to be really fucking angry I didn’t tell her…

I knock on the door, briskly.

And wait.

I knock again. “Alessia!”

There’s no answer.

Fuck. She’s really pissed off with me.

With caution I open the door. Her clothes are scattered on the bed—her robe discarded on the floor, but there’s no sign of her. I check the bathroom. It’s empty except for the trace of her scent. Lavender and roses. For an instant I close my eyes and inhale. It’s soothing.

Where the hell is she?

She’s probably gone off to explore the house.

Or she’s left.

Shit.

I storm out of the room and bellow her name down the corridor. My voice echoes off the walls hung with portraits of my ancestors, but it’s met with a resounding silence. Dread seeps into my bones. Where is she? Has she passed out somewhere?

She’s fled.

This is all too much for her. Or maybe she thinks I don’t care….

Fuck.

I pace down the hallway, throwing open each door, with Jensen and Healey as my wingmen.

* * *

Alessia is lost. She’s trying to find a way out. On tiptoe, she walks past door after door, painting after painting, along yet another wood-paneled corridor, until she eventually reaches a pair of double doors. She pushes through and finds herself at the top of a grand, wide staircase carpeted in scarlet and blue, which leads to a cavernous dark hallway below. On the landing there’s a mullioned bay window, beside which stand two suits of armor holding what look like pikes. On the wall over the staircase is a massive faded tapestry, bigger than the kitchen table she saw earlier, that depicts a man on bended knee to his sovereign. Well, Alessia assumes he must be the sovereign, judging by the crown he’s wearing. On the opposing walls above the staircase, there are two portraits. Huge. Both men. One is from an ancient time, the other far more recent. She sees the family resemblance in their faces and has a flash of recognition. They each stare at her with the same imperious green eyes. His green eyes.

This is Maxim’s family. His heritage. She finds it almost impossible to grasp.

But then her gaze falls on the carved twin-headed eagles that sit on the newel posts at the top, the turns, and the bottom of the staircase.

The symbol of Albania.

Suddenly she hears him shout out her name. It startles her.

No.

He’s back.

He shouts again. He sounds panicked. Desperate. Alessia freezes at the top of the impressive staircase, staring at the history that surrounds her. She’s torn. From far off beneath her, a clock with a booming chime signals the hour, making her jump. Once, twice, three times…

“Alessia!” Maxim calls again, nearer this time, and she can hear his footsteps. He’s running—running toward her.

The clock is still chiming. Loud and clear.

What should she do?

She grips the ornate eagle at the corner of the staircase as Maxim and the two dogs burst through the double doors. He stops when he sees her. His eyes sweep from her face to her feet, and he frowns.

* * *

I’ve found her. But my relief is tempered by her aloof yet inscrutable expression and the fact that she’s wearing her old clothes and carrying a sweater and a blanket.

Shit. This does not look good.

Her stance reminds me of the first time I encountered her in my hallway, all those weeks ago. She’s clutching the newel post like she clutched that broom. My senses are on high alert.

Tread warily, dude.

“There you are. Where are you going?” I ask.

She tosses her hair over her shoulder with that careless grace she has and tilts her chin in my direction. “I’m leaving.”

No! It’s like she’s kicked me in the stomach.

“What? Why?”

“You know why.” She sounds haughty, her expression etched with righteous indignation.

“Alessia. I’m sorry, I should have told you.”

“But you did not.”

I can’t argue with that. I stare at her while the hurt in her dark eyes burns a hole in my conscience.

“I understand.” She lifts one of her shoulders. “I am only your cleaner.”

“No. No. No!” I stalk toward her. “That’s not the reason.”

“Sir. Is everything okay?” Danny’s voice echoes off the stone walls and up the staircase from beneath us. I lean over the balustrade, and she appears with Jessie and Brody, one of the estate hands, in the hallway below. The three of them gape up at us openmouthed, like curious carp from the fish pond.


Advertisement3

<<<<93103111112113114115123133>159

Advertisement4