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)
“I can do that,” she says, though she looks a little doubtful.
“No. I’ll do it.” I rub my hands together. “I’m feeling domestic this evening, and trust me—it doesn’t happen often. So take advantage.”
Alessia arches a brow, amused, as if she’s seeing me in an entirely new light. I hope it’s a good thing.
“Here.” In one of the cupboards, I find an ice bucket. “You can fill this with ice. The fridge in the scullery dispenses ice. It’s for the champagne.”
A glass or two later, Alessia is curled up on one of the turquoise sofas, her feet tucked beneath her, watching me while I finish putting the stew in the oven.
“Do you play?” I ask, as I come and sit beside her. Alessia’s eyes flick to the marble chess set and back to me, her expression unreadable.
“A little,” she says, and takes a sip of her drink.
“A little, eh?” It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow. What does she mean? Without taking my eyes off her, I grab a white pawn and a gray one and shuffle them between my cupped hands and offer them to her in my fists. She licks her top lip and deliberately traces her index finger over the back of one hand. A tremor runs from my hand up my arm and directly to my dick.
Wow.
“This one,” she says, looking up at me through inky lashes. I shift in my seat, trying to bring my body under control, and turn up my palm. It’s the gray pawn. “Black.” I turn the board so that the gray chess pieces are in front of her. “Okay. I’ll start.”
Four moves in and I’m dragging my hands through my hair. “As usual, you’ve been holding out on me, haven’t you?” My tone is wry. Alessia bites her top lip in an effort to suppress her smile and look serious. But her eyes are alive with amusement as she watches me struggle to outmaneuver her.
Of course she can play like an ace.
Man, she is full of surprises.
I scowl in the hope that it’ll intimidate her into making a mistake. Her smile broadens, lighting up her beautiful face, and I can’t help my answering grin.
She is stunning.
“You’re rather good at this,” I observe.
She shrugs. “There is not much to do in Kukës. At home we have an old computer but no games consoles and clever phones. Piano, chess, and books, and some TV, that is what we have.” She glances at the bookshelf at the end of the room, her eyes full of appreciation.
“Books?”
“Oh, yes. Many, many books. In Albanian and English. I wanted to be an English teacher.” She studies the board for a moment, all humor gone.
Now she’s a cleaner on the run from sex-trafficking thugs.
“But you enjoy reading?”
“Yes.” She brightens. “Especially in English. My grandmother smuggled books into the country.”
“You mentioned that. Sounds risky.”
“Yes. It was dangerous for her. Books in English were banned by the Communists.”
Banned!
Once again I realize that I know very little about her homeland.
Dude, concentrate.
I take her knight, feeling smug. But one glance at her face tells me she’s hiding her smirk. She slides her rook left three squares and chuckles. “Schah…no. Check.”
Shit!
“Okay, our first and last game of chess,” I grumble as I shake my head in self-disgust.
This is like playing Maryanne. She always beats me.
Alessia tucks her hair behind her ear, takes another sip of champagne, and twirls her gold cross with her fingers. She’s thoroughly enjoying herself—thrashing me.
It’s a humbling moment.
Concentrate.
Three moves later she has me.
“Checkmate,” she says, assessing me intently, and her solemn expression steals my breath away.
“Well played, Alessia Demachi,” I whisper as desire heats my blood. “You’re very good at this.”
She glances at the board, breaking the spell. When she raises her head, she gives me a coy smile. “I played chess with my grandfather since I am six years. He was—how do you say?—a demon player. And he wanted to win. Even against a child.”
“He taught you well,” I murmur, recovering my equilibrium. What I really want to do is take her right here on the sofa. I consider pouncing on her—but concede that we should eat first.
“Is he still alive?” I ask.
“No, he died when I am twelve years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He had a good life.”
“You say you wanted to be an English teacher. What happened?”
“My university closed. They had no money. And my courses stopped.”
“Well, that sucks.”
She giggles. “Yes. It sucks. But I like working with little children. And I teach them music and read English to them. But only for two days each week, as I am not…what is the word? Qualified. And I help my mother at home. Another game?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I think my ego might need some time to recover before we do that again. Are you hungry?”