by E. L. James
My heart almost stops. He’s here. How did he get here? He must have left New York last night. How long has he been here watching me sleep?
“Hi,” I whisper.
He regards me coolly, and my heart stutters once more. Oh no. He moves his long fingers away from his mouth, tosses back the remainder of his drink, and places the glass on the bedside table. I half expect him to kiss me, but he doesn’t. He sits back, continuing to regard me, his expression impassive.
“Hello,” he says finally, his voice hushed. And I know he’s still mad. Really mad.
“You’re back.”
“It would appear so.”
Slowly I pull myself up into a sitting position, not taking my eyes off him. My mouth is dry. “How long have you been sitting there watching me sleep?”
“Long enough.”
“You’re still mad.” I can hardly speak the words.
He gazes at me, as if considering his response. “Mad,” he says as if testing the word, weighing up its nuances, its meaning. “No, Ana. I am way, way beyond mad.”
Holy crap. I try to swallow, but it’s hard with a dry mouth.
“Far beyond mad . . . that doesn’t sound good.”
He gazes at me, completely impassive, and doesn’t respond. A stark silence stretches between us. I reach over to my glass of water and take a welcome sip, trying to bring my erratic heart rate under control.
“Ryan caught Jack.” I try a different tack, and I place my glass beside his on the bedside table.
“I know,” he says icily.
Of course, he knows. “Are you going to be monosyllabic for long?”
His eyebrows move fractionally registering his surprise as if he hadn’t expected this question. “Yes,” he says finally.
Oh . . . okay. What to do? Defense—the best form of attack. “I’m sorry I stayed out.”
“Are you?”
“No,” I mutter after a pause, because it’s true.
“Why say it then?”
“Because I don’t want you to be mad at me.”
He sighs heavily as if he’s been holding this tension for a thousand hours and runs his hand through his hair. He looks beautiful. Mad, but beautiful. I drink him in—Christian’s back—angry, but in one piece.
“I think Detective Clark wants to talk to you.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“Christian, please . . .”
“Please what?”
“Don’t be so cold.”
His eyebrows rise in surprise once more. “Anastasia, cold is not what I’m feeling at the moment. I’m burning. Burning with rage. I don’t know how to deal with these”—he waves his hand searching for the word—“feelings.” His tone is bitter.
Oh shit. His honesty disarms me. All I want to do is crawl into his lap. It’s all I’ve wanted to do since I came home last night. To hell with this. I move, taking him by surprise and climbing awkwardly into his lap, where I curl up. He doesn’t push me away, which is what I’d feared. After a beat, he folds his arms around me and buries his nose in my hair. He smells of whiskey. Jeez, how much did he drink? He smells of bodywash, too. He smells of Christian. I wrap my arms around his neck and nuzzle his throat, and he sighs once more, deeply this time.
“Oh, Mrs. Grey. What am I going to do with you?” He kisses the top of my head. I close my eyes, relishing the contact with him.
“How much have you had to drink?”
He stills. “Why?”
“You don’t normally drink hard liquor.”
“This is my second glass. I’ve had a trying night, Anastasia. Give a man a break.”
I smile. “If you insist, Mr. Grey,” I breathe into his neck. “You smell heavenly. I slept on your side of the bed because your pillow smells of you.”
He nuzzles my hair. “Did you now? I wondered why you were on this side. I’m still mad at you.”
“I know.”
His hand rhythmically strokes my back.
“And I’m mad at you,” I whisper.
He pauses. “And what, pray, have I done to deserve your ire?”
“I’ll tell you later when you’re no longer burning with rage.” I kiss his throat. He closes his eyes and leans into my kiss but makes no move to kiss me back. His arms tighten around me, squeezing me.
“When I think of what might have happened . . .” His voice is barely a whisper. Broken, raw.
“I’m okay.”
“Oh, Ana.” It’s almost a sob.
“I’m okay. We’re all okay. A bit shaken. But Gail is fine. Ryan is fine. And Jack is gone.”
He shakes his head. “No thanks to you,” he mutters.
What? I lean back, and glare at him. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to argue about it right now, Ana.”
I blink. Well, maybe I do, but I decide against it. At least he’s talking to me. I nestle into him once more. His fingers move to my hair and start playing with it.
“I want to punish you,” he whispers. “Really beat the shit out of you,” he adds.
My heart leaps into my mouth. Fuck. “I know,” I whisper as my scalp prickles.
“Maybe I will.”
“I hope not.”
He hugs me tighter. “Ana, Ana, Ana. You’d try the patience of a saint.”
“I could accuse you of many things, Mr. Grey, but being a saint isn’t one of them.”
Finally I am blessed with his reluctant chuckle. “Fair point well made as ever, Mrs. Grey.” He kisses my forehead and shifts.
“Back to bed. You had a late night, too.” He moves quickly, picking me up and depositing me back on the bed.
“Lie down with me?”
“No. I have things to do.” He reaches down and collects the glass. “Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.”
“Are you still mad at me?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll go back to sleep, then.”
“Good.” He pulls the duvet over me and kisses my forehead once more. “Sleep.”
And because I’m so groggy from the night before, relieved that he’s back, and emotionally fatigued by our early-morning encounter, I do exactly as I’m told. As I drift off, I’m curious though grateful, given the nasty taste in my mouth, to know why he hasn’t deployed his usual coping mechanism and leapt on me to have his wicked way.
“There’s some orange juice for you here,” Christian says, and my eyes flutter open again. I have had the most restful two hours of sleep I can remember, and I wake refreshed, my head no longer throbbing. The orange juice is a welcome sight—as is my husband. He’s in his sweats. And I’m momentarily zapped back to the Heathman Hotel and the first time I ever woke up with him. His gray tank top is damp with his sweat. Either he’s been working out in the basement gym or he’s been for a run, but he shouldn’t look this good after a workout.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he murmurs and disappears to the bathroom. I frown. He’s still distant. He’s either distracted by all that’s happened, or still mad, or . . . what? I sit up and reach for the orange juice, drinking it down too quickly. It’s delicious, ice cold, and it makes my mouth a much better place. I clamber out of bed, anxious to close the distance—real and metaphysical—between my husband and me. I glance quickly at the alarm. It’s eight o’clock. I strip off Christian’s T-shirt and follow him into the bathroom. He’s in the shower, washing his hair, and I don’t hesitate. I slip in behind him, and he stiffens the moment I wrap my arms around him—my front to his wet, muscular back. I ignore his reaction, holding him tightly, and press my cheek flat against him, closing my eyes. After a moment, he shifts so we are both under the cascade of hot water and carries on washing his hair. I let the water wash over me as I cradle the man I love. I think of all the times he’s fucked me and all the times he’s made love to me in here. I frown. He’s never been this quiet. Turning my head, I start to trail kisses across his back. His body stiffens again.
“Ana,” he warns.<
br />
“Hmm.”
My hands travel slowly down over his taut stomach to his belly. He places both his hands on mine and brings them to an abrupt halt. He shakes his head.
“Don’t,” he warns.
I release him, immediately. He’s saying no? My mind goes into free fall—has this ever happened before? My subconscious shakes her head, her lips pursed. She glares at me over her half-moon glasses, wearing her you’ve-really-fucked-up-this-time look. I feel like I’ve been slapped, hard. Rejected. And a lifetime of insecurity spawns the ugly thought he doesn’t want me anymore. I gasp as the pain sears through me. Christian turns, and I’m relieved to see he’s not completely oblivious to my charms. Grasping my chin, he tilts my head back, and I find myself gazing into his wary, beautiful eyes.
“I’m still fucking mad at you,” he says, his voice quiet and serious. Shit! Leaning down, he rests his forehead against mine, closing his eyes. I reach up and caress his face.
“Don’t be mad at me, please. I think you’re overreacting,” I whisper.
He straightens, blanching. My hand falls free to my side.
“Overreacting?” he snarls. “Some fucking lunatic gets into my apartment to kidnap my wife, and you think I’m overreacting!” The restrained menace in his voice is frightening, and his eyes blaze as he stares at me as if I’m the fucking lunatic.
“No . . . um, that’s not what I was referring to. I thought this was about me staying out.”
He closes his eyes once more as if in pain and shakes his head.
“Christian, I wasn’t here.” I try to appease and reassure him.
“I know,” he whispers opening his eyes. “And all because you can’t follow a simple, fucking request.” His tone is bitter and it’s my turn to blanch. “I don’t want to discuss this now, in the shower. I am still fucking mad at you, Anastasia. You’re making me question my judgment.” He turns and promptly leaves the shower, grabbing a towel on the way and stalking out of the bathroom, leaving me bereft and chilled under the hot water.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
Then the significance of what he’s just said dawns on me. Kidnap? Fuck. Jack wanted to kidnap me? I recall the duct tape and not wanting to think too deeply about why Jack had that. Does Christian have more information? Hurriedly I wash myself, then shampoo and rinse my hair. I want to know. I need to know. I am not going to let him keep me in the dark about this.
Christian’s not in the bedroom when I come out. Jeez, he dresses quickly. I do the same, throwing on my favorite plum dress and black sandals, and I’m conscious that I’ve chosen this outfit because Christian likes it. I vigorously towel-dry my hair, then braid it and wind it into a bun. Fitting diamond studs into my ears, I dash to the bathroom to apply a little mascara and glance at myself in the mirror. I’m pale. Jeez, I’m always pale. I take a deep steadying breath. I need to face the consequences of my rash decision to actually enjoy myself with my friend. I sigh, knowing that Christian won’t see it that way.
Christian is nowhere to be seen in the great room. Mrs. Jones is busying herself in the kitchen.
“Good morning, Ana,” she says sweetly.
“Morning,” I smile broadly at her. I am Ana again!
“Tea?”
“Please.”
“Anything to eat?”
“Please. I’d like an omelet this morning.”
“With mushrooms and spinach?”
“And cheese.”
“Coming up.”
“Where’s Christian?”
“Mr. Grey’s in his study.”
“Has he had breakfast?” I glance at the two places set on the breakfast bar.
“No, ma’am.”
“Thanks.”
Christian is on the phone, dressed in a white shirt with no tie, looking like every part the relaxed CEO. How deceptive appearances can be. Perhaps he’s not going into the office after all. He glances up when I appear in the doorway but shakes his head at me, indicating that I am not welcome. Shit . . . I turn and wander dejectedly back to the breakfast bar. Taylor appears, snappily dressed in a somber suit, looking like he’s had eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.
“Morning, Taylor,” I murmur, trying to gauge his mood and see if he’ll offer me any visual cues about what has been going on.
“Good morning, Mrs. Grey,” he replies, and I hear the sympathy in those four words. I smile compassionately back at him, knowing he had to endure an angry, frustrated Christian returning to Seattle way ahead of schedule.
“How was the flight?” I dare to ask.
“Long, Mrs. Grey.” His brevity speaks volumes. “May I ask how you are?” he adds, his tone softening.
“I’m good.”
He nods. “If you’ll excuse me.” He heads toward Christian’s study. Hmm. Taylor’s allowed in, but not me.
“Here you go.” Mrs. Jones places my breakfast in front of me. My appetite has vanished, but I eat anyway, not wishing to offend her.
By the time I’ve finished what I can of my breakfast, Christian has still not emerged from his study. Is he avoiding me?
“Thanks, Mrs. Jones,” I murmur, sliding off the bar stool and making my way to the bathroom to clean my teeth. As I brush them, I’m reminded of Christian’s sulk over the wedding vows. He holed up in his study then, too. Is that what this is? Him sulking? I shudder as I recall his subsequent nightmare. Will that happen again? We really need to talk. I need to know about Jack and about the increased security for the Greys—all the details that have been kept from me, but not from Kate. Obviously Elliot talks to her.
I glance at my watch. It’s eight fifty—I’m late for work. I finish brushing my teeth, apply a little lip gloss, grab my lightweight black jacket, and head back to the great room. I am relieved to see Christian there, eating his breakfast.
“You’re going?” he says when he sees me.
“To work? Yes, of course.” Bravely, I walk toward him and rest my hands on the edge of the breakfast bar. He gazes at me blankly.
“Christian, we’ve hardly been back a week. I have to go to work.”
“But—” He stops, and rakes his hand through his hair. Mrs. Jones walks quietly out of the room. Discreet, Gail, discreet.
“I know we have a great deal to talk about. Perhaps if you’ve calmed down, we can do it this evening.”
His mouth pops open with dismay. “Calmed down?” His voice is eerily soft.
I flush. “You know what I mean.”
“No, Anastasia, I don’t know what you mean.”
“I don’t want a fight. I was coming to ask you if I could take my car.”
“No. You can’t,” he snaps.
“Okay.” I acquiesce immediately.
He blinks. He was obviously expecting a fight. “Prescott will accompany you.” His tone is slightly less belligerent.
Dammit, not Prescott. I want to pout and protest but decide against it. Surely now Jack has been caught we can cut back on our security.
I remember my mom’s “words of wisdom” talk the day before my wedding. Ana, honey, you really have to choose your battles. It’ll be the same with your kids when you have them. Well, at least he’s letting me go to work.
“Okay,” I mutter. And because I don’t want to leave him like this with so much unresolved and so much tension between us, I step tentatively toward him. He stiffens, his eyes widening, and for a moment he looks so vulnerable it pulls at some deep, dark place in my heart. Oh, Christian, I’m so sorry. I kiss him chastely on the side of his mouth. He closes his eyes as if relishing my touch.
“Don’t hate me,” I whisper.
He grabs my hand. “I don’t hate you.”
“You haven’t kissed me,” I whisper.
He eyes me suspiciously. “I know,” he mutters.
I’m desperate to ask him why, but I’m not sure I want to know the answer. Abruptly he stands and grabs my face between his hands, and in a flash his lips are hard on mine. I gasp with surprise, inadvertently granti
ng his tongue access. He takes full advantage, invading my mouth, claiming me, and just as I’m beginning to respond he releases me, his breathing quickening.
“Taylor will take you and Prescott to SIP,” he says, his eyes flaring with need. “Taylor!” he calls. I flush, trying to recover some composure.
“Sir.” Taylor is standing in the doorway.
“Tell Prescott Mrs. Grey is going to work. Can you drive them, please?”
“Certainly.” Turning on his heel, Taylor disappears.
“If you could try to stay out of trouble today, I would appreciate it,” Christian mutters.
“I’ll see what I can do.” I smile sweetly. A reluctant half smile tugs at Christian’s lips, but he doesn’t give in to it.
“I’ll see you later, then,” he says coolly.
“Laters,” I whisper.
Prescott and I take the service elevator down to the basement garage in order to avoid the media outside. Jack’s arrest and the fact he was apprehended in our apartment are now public knowledge. As I settle into the Audi, I wonder if there will be more paparazzi waiting at SIP like the day our engagement was announced.
We drive a while in silence until I remember to call first Ray and then my mom to reassure them that Christian and I are safe. Mercifully, both calls are short, and I hang up just as we arrive outside SIP. As I feared, there’s a small crowd of reporters and photographers lying in wait. They turn as one, looking expectantly at the Audi.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Mrs. Grey?” Taylor asks. Part of me just wants to go home, but that means spending the day with Mr. Burning Rage. I hope that with a little time, he will gain some perspective. Jack is in police custody, so Fifty should be happy, but he’s not. Part of me understands why; too much of this is out of his control including me, but I don’t have time to think about this now.
“Take me around to the delivery entrance, please, Taylor.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It’s one o’clock and I’ve managed to immerse myself in work all morning. There’s a knock and Elizabeth pops her head around the door.
