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)
“Great. I’ll ring you back in about twenty.”
I hang up. My mood has nosedived, and I start to think about what I’d really miss if it was taken. My cameras. My decks. My computer…
Shit! My father’s cameras!
What a fucking pain in the arse this is—some fucking lowlife addict or maybe some feral teenage kids wrecking my place.
Fuck. A. Duck.
I had plans to spend the day with Alessia, maybe go down to the Eden Project. Well, I might still be able to do so, but I need to assess the damage—and I don’t want to do it from my phone. If I FaceTime Oliver from the iMac up at the great house, I’ll get a better view; he can show me via his phone what’s happened.
Feeling fucked off and with a heavy heart, I head back into the bedroom, where Alessia is still in bed.
“What is wrong?” she asks, sitting up, her hair falling over her breasts. She looks rumpled and sexy and eminently fuckable. The sight of her is a balm that immediately makes me feel better. But, sadly, I’ll have to leave her for a short while. I don’t want to burden her with this news. She’s had enough to deal with over the last few weeks.
“I’ve got to pop out and take care of something. We may even have to go back to London. But you stay in bed. Sleep. I know you’re tired. I’ll be back soon.” She pulls the quilt up, her brow furrowed in concern. I give her a swift kiss and go grab a shower.
When I come out of the bathroom, she’s gone. I dress quickly in jeans and a white shirt. I find her downstairs in the kitchen, wearing only my pajama top and clearing up our dishes from the night before. She hands me a cup of espresso. “To wake you up,” she says with an adoring smile, though her eyes are wide, wary. She’s anxious.
I swallow it down. It’s hot, strong, and delicious. A little like Alessia.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be back before you know it.” I kiss her once more, grab my coat, and I’m out the door, dodging the raindrops and bolting up the steps. I climb into the car and speed off along the lane.
* * *
Alessia watches Maxim vault up the steps and close the gate behind him. He looks worried, and she wonders where he’s going. Something bad has happened. A frisson skitters up her spine, but she’s not sure why. She sighs. There’s so much she doesn’t know about him.
And he said they might have to return to London. She will have to face the reality of her situation.
Homelessness.
Zot.
She’s pushed it all aside for the last few days, but so much is unresolved in her life. Where will she live? Will Dante have given up looking for her? How does Maxim feel about her? She sucks in a breath as she tries to shake off her concerns and hopes that he can deal with whatever the problem is quickly and return. Even now the house feels empty without him. The last few days have been blissful, and she hopes they don’t have to go back to London. She’s not ready to return to reality yet. She’s never been happier than she is here, with him. In the meantime she’ll finish loading the dishwasher. Then she’ll shower.
* * *
I take a shortcut along the back roads to the great house that is Tresyllian Hall because it’s faster than going up the main drive. The rain is growing heavier, drumming on the car windscreen and roof as I slice through the narrow lanes. Passing the gatehouse at the southern entrance to the estate, I slow as the car rattles over the cattle grid, then accelerate up the driveway through the south pasture. In this winter rain, the landscape is dreary and damp and dotted with the occasional sheep. Come spring, the cattle will be out to graze again. Through the leafless trees, I catch sight of the house. Nestled in the wide dale, slate gray and Gothic, it dominates the landscape as if plucked from a novel by one of the Brontë sisters. The original house was built on the site of an old Benedictine priory. But the land and the abbey were seized by Henry VIII during the dissolution of the monasteries. Over a century later, in 1661, following the restoration of the monarchy, the estate was bestowed, along with the title Earl of Trevethick, to Edward Trevelyan for his services to Charles II. The great house he built was all but destroyed by fire in 1862, and this neo-Gothic monstrosity, with all its finials and fake molded battlements, was built in its place. It’s the seat of the earls of Trevethick, a huge rambling pile, and I’ve always loved it.