The Mister Read online E.L. James

Categories Genre: Chick Lit, Contemporary, Erotic, Romance Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
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“Some men from the immigration department were here today looking for you.”

Oh, no.

Alessia pales, and she hears the blood hammering in her ears.

“It was after you left for work,” Magda adds.

“Wh-wh-what…what did you tell them?” she stutters as she tries to still the trembling in her hands.

“I didn’t speak with them. Mr. Forrester from next door did. They knocked on his door because we were not here. He did not like the look of them and told them he had never heard of you. He said that Michal and I were away in Poland.”

“Did they believe him?”

“Yes. Mr. Forrester thinks so. They left.”

“How did they find me?”

“I don’t know.” Magda makes a face. “Who knows how these things work?” She takes another drag from her cigarette. “I have to write to your mother.”

“No!” Alessia grasps Magda’s hand. “Please.”

“I’ve already written and told her that you arrived safely. That was a lie.”

Alessia flushes. Magda does not know the full story of her journey to Brentford. “Please,” she says. “I don’t want to worry her.”

“Alessia, if they catch you, you’ll be deported to Albania—” Magda stops.

“I know,” Alessia whispers, and a trickle of sweat runs down her spine as fear tightens her throat. “I cannot go back,” she mouths.

“You realize that Michal and I are leaving in two weeks. You have to find somewhere else to stay.”

“I know. I know. I’ll find something.” Anxiety flutters in Alessia’s stomach. Every night she lies in bed going through her options. So far she has saved three hundred pounds from her cleaning work. She will need the money for a deposit on a room. With Michal’s help and the use of his laptop, she will try to find a place to live.

“I’ll get supper started,” Magda says with a sigh as she stubs out her cigarette. The smoke swirls out of the ashtray, blending with the tension in the room.

“Let me help,” Alessia responds.

* * *

Later Alessia is huddled on her cot, staring at the ceiling. With her fingers she worries the gold cross she wears around her neck. The light from the streetlamp shines through the sheer curtains across the old, peeling wallpaper. Her mind races as she tries not to panic. Earlier, after an hour searching online, she’d found a room in a house that is near Kew Bridge station. Magda says that it’s not far from here. Alessia has an appointment to see it on Friday evening when she’s back from cleaning the Mister’s apartment. She can barely afford it, but she needs to move, especially if the immigration department is catching up with her. She cannot be deported. She cannot go back to Albania.

She cannot.

She turns over to escape the shaft of light and snuggles up in the thin duvet to preserve as much warmth as she can. Thoughts swirl in her head, overwhelming her. She wants them to stop.

Don’t think about Albania.

Don’t think about this journey.

Don’t think about the other girls…about Bleriana.

She closes her eyes, and immediately she sees the Mister asleep on the sofa, his hair a mess, his lips parted. She remembers lying on him. She remembers his swift kiss. She imagines that she’s lying on him again, inhaling his scent and kissing his skin and feeling the steady beat of his heart against her breast.

I missed you.

She groans.

Every night he occupies her thoughts. He is handsome. More than handsome—he is beautiful and kind.

I love hearing you play.

He drove her home. He didn’t have to do that.

You could stay here.

Stay with him?

Perhaps she could ask him for help.

No. Her situation is her problem. It’s not of her making, but it’s one she must deal with. She has made it this far on nothing but her ingenuity. And there’s no way in hell she’s going back to Kukës. Not to him.

He’s shaking me hard. Stop this. Stop this now.

No. Don’t think of him!

He’s the reason she’s in England. She has put as many miles as she can between them.

Think of the Mister. Only the Mister.

Her hand travels down her body.

Think only of him….

What had he called her? What is it called?

Synesthesia…She repeats the name over and over and over while her hand moves and takes her higher and higher.

* * *

The following morning she wakes to a white wonderland. It’s so quiet. Even the distant hum of traffic is muffled by the blanket of sparkling snow. As she looks out her bedroom window, still huddled under her covers, she feels the same rush of delight she always experienced as a child when it snowed in Kukës. Then she remembers that today she is cleaning Mrs. Kingsbury’s house. On the plus side, it’s in Brentford and only a short walk away. On the minus, it’s Mrs. Kingsbury, who follows her through the house criticizing her cleaning methods. But Alessia suspects that Mrs. Kingsbury grouses because she’s a lonely old lady, and in spite of her complaining she always offers Alessia tea and biscuits when she’s finished. They sit and chat, and Mrs. Kingsbury tries to keep her there for as long as possible. Alessia doesn’t understand why Mrs. Kingsbury lives on her own. She’s seen photographs of her family on her mantelpiece. Why aren’t they taking care of her? After all, Nana lived with her parents after her grandfather died…Perhaps Mrs. Kingsbury needs a lodger? Someone to look after her. She certainly has the room, and after all, Alessia is lonely, too.


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