20. Alessandro
Chapter twenty
Alessandro
My phone’s burning a hole in my pocket as the days stretch without Willow texting me back. Every time Mammina sends me photos of the babies in her sphere, my heart sinks. As much as I love my mother, it’s Willow I want to hear from.
I have the supplies for the fencing upgrade but can’t install anything until she contacts me back.
Given how beautiful her gardens are, she no doubt has a regular contractor, so what if she asked someone else to do the work and I can’t see her again?
I also wonder how Mr Shares is going, with his silky coat and mischief-making.
Every day when I’m working in my little shed, I keep one eye on the back fence.
It’s normal for clients not to call me back right away, but this silence eats at me. Like something is missing in my life.
Makes no sense.
The unforgiving summer sun beats down on me as I clean old grass clippings off my lawnmower and service it, changing the oil and filters to keep the motor running well. The machine does a lot of miles every week.
Footsteps crunch on the gravel, announcing an arrival, and a moment later Mrs Warkow peeks around the shed. No doubt she’s feeling the heat too, because she wears a bikini with a sarong tied around her hip. The dogs, Fox and Coyote spill past her, checking around the shed and sniffing my machinery.
“Hi, Alessandro,” she says barely above a whisper.
I straighten and wipe my hands on a rag. “Hello, ma’am. Were you looking for me?”
“Yes. Could you come help me with a curtain rod in the guest house?”
“Sure thing.” I turn back to wash my hands properly and get a shirt, but she calls me.
“Don’t worry about that. Just hurry. I think it’s about to fall.”
Sounds urgent. I swipe my drill off the bench and hurry after her, the Dobermans scouting ahead of us.
The landlady holds the door open for me to enter the rectangular little house on the far side of the pool, offset from the main residence at a ninety-degree angle. I peel my boots off by the front door, so I don’t track grass stains across the floorboards.
The inside’s done up with a beach theme in blue and white, with a ship’s wheel clock on the wall and watercolor sea creatures in pastel blue and peach hues. Cooling, after the blistering heat outside.
I finger comb my hair back, conscious of what a mess I look like. Mrs Warkow is my boss, so I don’t want to present as a slob before her.
“Oh.” She halts in front of a pile of gauzy fabric pooling over a chair with a wooden rod sticking up out of it. “Looks like it came down.”
“Are you just trying to hang this curtain?” I ask.
“Yes.” She smiles, turning her cheek into her shrugging shoulder. “It was a little heavy for me.”
I reposition the chair and climb up to check on the rod holders. One has a loose screw, so I drill that in before reaching for the pole.
Mrs Warkow reaches up and pats my thigh. “I can hold your drill.”
“Oh, thanks.” My skin crawls where her fingers touched.
I work carefully, shunting the fabric along the pole until the closest end clears. The carved head slots neatly in the cradle, this end nicely secured. When I go to step off the chair, I discover the lady directly underneath me.
“Colpa mia!” My body brushes hers, and jerk I back with a hiss, bracing one hand on the wall to catch my fall. “I’m so sorry, ma’am.”
Do people normally stand that close to workmen? Maybe she was afraid I’d overbalance and fall, but the last thing I need is to be accused of something inappropriate.
“No problem at all,” she purrs, voice so soft I have to strain to hear her. Toying with a jeweled pendant on a golden necklace that hangs between her breasts, she adds, “And please, call me Miranda. Mrs Warkow belongs to my mother-in-law.”
Even her name sounds rich.
“If that’s what you prefer.” My policy is to do everything possible to put the clients at ease.
They’re the ones paying my bills, or, in this case, providing my accommodation.
I step down on the far side of the chair and move it to the opposite end of the window.
Miranda trails after me, stroking her pendant.
Does she want me to notice it or something?
I take a second look. “That’s a pretty necklace.”
“Oh, isn’t it?” She lifts the gem at the end. “This is called an ametrine. Want a closer look?”
I look to be polite, conscious that I’m too close to her body. But it is pretty. The triangular rock morphs from sunset yellow in the center to soft purple on the outside. Dark lines thrust out through it, like a starburst.
“It’s my birthday present.” Miranda grins and turns her shoulders side-to-side like a young, excited girl.
“It’s lovely. Suits you.” I turn away and climb up to hang the rest of the curtain. A mental clock ticks in my head, counting the minutes and calculating when I need to leave for my next job.
When I’m done, I jump down. “All finished. Is it hanging how you wanted?”
She fusses with the drape for a minute before nodding.
“Perfect.” She turns her gaze back on me, eyes feverish.
But she doesn’t tell me I can go, so I stand there awkwardly, hands behind my back waiting. Oh, I better pack things up. I carry the chair back into the dining area and fetch a dustpan and brush from the kitchen. Best to make sure I didn’t loosen any plaster dust redrilling the fixture.
Miranda’s gaze tracks me every step of the way as I clean up a few bits of dust on the floor. The way her eyes stay glued on me has an eerie prickle running down my spine. Feels far too similar to how Mr Monstead’s wife watches me through the window.
Merda, I really hope I’m wrong about what’s going on in Miranda’s mind.
My landlady follows me back to the kitchen as I dump the trash. When I replace the dustpan, she hoists herself up onto the benchtop and sticks her foot out to block my path.
“Is there . . . something else you need help with?” I ask, my stomach tightening as I consider what her answer might be.
Miranda rakes a slow gaze over my bare chest. “There is.”
“If there’s gardening, or more things to fix—”
She giggles and grabs my arm, tugging me closer. “Come on, Alessandro. Don’t play coy. Do you think I haven’t seen you running topless around my yard?”
My throat constricts. “Ma’am, I only do that in the shed that’s been allocated to me. And the view to the house is blocked. But if I’ve offended anyone, I’m happy to change.”
“Offend? Pfft.” She throws her head back and laughs. “Darling, quite the opposite. In fact, I was thinking—” She slips a finger through the loophole on my jeans and tugs. “How about taking a few more items off? You have a very sexy body, you know.”
A shiver runs through my soul. How do I extract myself without causing offense? Worst case scenario, she gets upset and tells me to vacate. Without a home address or place to sleep and store my equipment, my entire business will be in jeopardy.
“Signora,” I begin. “You and your husband have been most generous with me. I don’t want to do anything that displeases.” I pressure her hand off my pants and step back, my spine hitting the refrigerator.
She gives a tiny shake of her head. “You don’t need to be so old fashioned. My husband isn’t much up to the job anymore, if you know what I mean.”
I catch her eye. “Then shall we find him and invite him to join?” The idea makes me nauseous, but I need a way out.
Her expression turns ugly. “Don’t be stupid!” She catches herself and breathes deep. Calmer, she smiles at me. “Alessandro, be a darling and just do what I say.”
She spreads her legs wide on the counter, her knotted skirt slipping to either side of her knees.
The movement draws my gaze, despite not meaning to look.
Miranda slips her hand inside her bikini bottoms, fingers plying the skin beneath. “It’s right here, waiting for your Italian alpha cock.”
I turn my face away, my pulse racing. I suppose desire is a part of it; any woman offering her body is bound to get a man’s attention.
But close on its heels comes the rush of instinct screaming danger!
I must get away before this grows any worse.
But how? Panic flows up my throat, choking me.
The cool metal surface of the refrigerator chills my back.
Willow’s face flashes into mind, the way she cowered under the bench in fear. For some reason, it gives me the courage I need to step forward. No matter what’s at risk, I can’t do something I don’t believe in.
“I’m sorry, Mrs Warkow, but I won’t slink around behind your husband’s back. If you’ll excuse me now, I need to get back to work.”
Her jaw ticks as I push past her foot. She sits there, hand still fingering her pussy, as I leave. When I reach the door, she calls out, “You’ll take me eventually, Alex. Wait and see.”
I glance over my shoulder. Her mouth opens with a soft, orgasmic gasp, and as I turn and flee, she groans my name.
Nausea flutters in my stomach. Did that really happen, or is this a horrible nightmare?
My landlord’s wife has the hots for me, and she thinks I’ll fuck her?
Not in this life. But why was she so sure?
The afterimage of her pleasuring herself on the bench, head thrown back calling my name, sears in my brain.
And not in a good way. More like third-rate porn you can’t get out of your head.
Anybody got a cleansing soap for the brain?
Back in my shed, I close the door and windows—preferring to swelter than be followed—before wiping my body down and yanking a shirt on.
Time for me to pack things up and go mow the lawns at Number Ninety Almonde Street.
I put my mower back together and pack it into my trailer before scanning the driveway up and down.
The coast appears clear, but I still drive faster than normal past the main house.
As I’m turning onto the main road, I recall I left my drill behind in the guest house somewhere with that woman. My heart sinks. What if Mr Warkow finds it? Or what if his wife takes it upon herself to return the tool to my shed and corners me again?
My private sanctuary just became a trap.