by E. L. James
What does this mean? How is it that he can say the most romantic things? He smiles, and I can’t help my shy smile.
“As well as the evening sun, there’s more to see this time,” he says.
The last time we flew to Seattle it was dark, but this evening the view is spectacular, literally out of this world. We’re up among the tallest buildings, going higher and higher.
“Escala’s over there.” He points toward the building. “Boeing there, and you can just see the Space Needle.”
I crane my head. “I’ve never been.”
“I’ll take you—we can eat there.”
“Christian, we broke up.”
“I know. I can still take you there and feed you.” He glares at me.
I shake my head and decide not to antagonize him. “It’s very beautiful up here, thank you.”
“Impressive, isn’t it?”
“Impressive that you can do this.”
“Flattery from you, Miss Steele? But I’m a man of many talents.”
“I’m fully aware of that, Mr. Grey.”
He turns and smirks at me, and for the first time in five days, I relax a little. Perhaps this won’t be so bad.
“How’s the new job?”
“Good, thank you. Interesting.”
“What’s your boss like?”
“Oh, he’s okay.” How can I tell Christian that Jack makes me uncomfortable? Christian glances at me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Aside from the obvious, nothing.”
“The obvious?”
“Oh, Christian, you really are very obtuse sometimes.”
“Obtuse? Me? I’m not sure I appreciate your tone, Miss Steele.”
“Well, don’t, then.”
His lips twitch into a smile. “I have missed your smart mouth, Anastasia.”
I gasp and I want to shout, I’ve missed you—all of you—not just your mouth! But I keep quiet and gaze out the glass fishbowl that is Charlie Tango’s windshield as we continue south. The dusk is to our right, the sun low on the horizon—large, blazing fiery orange—and I am Icarus again, flying far too close.
THE DUSK FOLLOWS US from Seattle, and the sky is awash with opal, pinks, and aquamarines woven seamlessly together as only Mother Nature knows how. It’s a clear, crisp evening, and the lights of Portland twinkle and wink, welcoming us as Christian sets the helicopter down on the helipad. We are on top of the strange brown brick building in Portland we left less than three weeks ago.
It’s been hardly any time at all. Yet I feel like I’ve known Christian for a lifetime. He powers down Charlie Tango, flipping various switches so the rotors stop, and eventually all I hear is my own breathing through the headphones. Hmm. Briefly it reminds me of the Thomas Tallis experience. I blanch. I don’t want to go there right now.
Christian unbuckles his harness and leans across to undo mine.
“Good trip, Miss Steele?” he asks, his voice mild, his eyes glowing.
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Grey,” I reply politely.
“Well, let’s go see the boy’s photos.” He holds his hand out to me and taking it, I climb out of Charlie Tango.
A gray-haired man with a beard walks over to meet us, grinning broadly, and I recognize him as the old-timer from the last time we were here.
“Joe.” Christian smiles and releases my hand to shake Joe’s warmly.
“Keep her safe for Stephan. He’ll be along around eight or nine.”
“Will do, Mr. Grey. Ma’am,” he says, nodding at me. “Your car’s waiting downstairs, sir. Oh, and the elevator’s out of order; you’ll need to use the stairs.”
“Thank you, Joe.”
Christian takes my hand, and we head to the emergency stairs.
“Good thing for you this is only three floors, in those heels,” he mutters in disapproval.
No kidding.
“Don’t you like the boots?”
“I like them very much, Anastasia.” His gaze darkens and I think he might say something else, but he stops. “Come. We’ll take it slow. I don’t want you falling and breaking your neck.”
WE SIT IN SILENCE as our driver takes us to the gallery. My anxiety has returned full force, and I realize that our time in Charlie Tango has been the eye of the storm. Christian is quiet and brooding … apprehensive even; our lighter mood from earlier has dissipated. There’s so much I want to say, but this journey is too short. Christian stares pensively out the window.
“José is just a friend,” I murmur.
Christian turns and gazes at me, his eyes dark and guarded, giving nothing away. His mouth—oh, his mouth is distracting, and unbidden. I remember it on me—everywhere. My skin heats. He shifts in his seat and frowns.
“Those beautiful eyes look too large in your face, Anastasia. Please tell me you’ll eat.”
“Yes, Christian, I’ll eat,” I answer automatically, a platitude.
“I mean it.”
“Do you, now?” I cannot keep the disdain out of my voice. Honestly, the audacity of this man—this man who has put me through hell over the last few days. No, that’s wrong. I’ve put myself through hell. No. It’s him. I shake my head, confused.
“I don’t want to fight with you, Anastasia. I want you back, and I want you healthy,” he says.
“But nothing’s changed.” You’re still fifty shades.
“Let’s talk on the way back. We’re here.”
The car pulls up in front of the gallery, and Christian climbs out, leaving me speechless. He opens the car door for me, and I clamber out.
“Why do you do that?” My voice is louder than I expected.
“Do what?” Christian is taken aback.
“Say something like that and then just stop.”
“Anastasia, we’re here. Where you want to be. Let’s do this and then talk. I don’t particularly want a scene in the street.”
I glance around. He’s right. It’s too public. I press my lips together as he glares down at me.
“Okay,” I mutter sulkily. Clasping my hand, he takes me into the building.
We are in a converted warehouse—brick walls, dark wood floors, white ceilings, and white pipe work. It’s airy and modern, and there are several people wandering across the gallery floor, sipping wine and admiring José’s work. For a moment, my troubles melt away as I grasp that José has realized his dream. Way to go, José!
“Good evening and welcome to José Rodriguez’s show.” A young woman dressed in black with very short brown hair, bright red lipstick, and large hooped earrings greets us. She glances briefly at me, then much longer than is strictly necessary at Christian, then turns back to me, blinking as she blushes.
My brow creases. He’s mine—or was. I try hard not to scowl at her. As her eyes regain their focus, she blinks again.
“Oh, it’s you, Ana. We’ll want your take on all this, too.” Grinning, she hands me a brochure and directs me to a table laden with drinks and snacks.
“You know her?” Christian frowns.
I shake my head, equally puzzled.
He shrugs, distracted. “What would you like to drink?”
“I’ll have a glass of white wine, thank you.”
His brow furrows, but he holds his tongue and heads for the open bar.
“Ana!”
José comes barreling through a throng of people.
Holy cow! He’s wearing a suit. He looks good and he’s beaming at me. He enfolds me in his arms, hugging me hard. And it’s all I can do not to burst into tears. My friend, he’s my only friend while Kate is away. Tears pool in my eyes.
“Ana, I’m so glad you made it,” he whispers in my ear. Abruptly he holds me at arm’s length, examining me.
“What?”
“Hey are you okay? You look, well, odd. Dios mío, have you lost weight?”
I blink back my tears—not him too. “José, I’m fine. I’m just so happy for you. Congratulations on the show.” My voice wavers as I see the conce
rn etched on his oh-so-familiar face, but I have to hold myself together.
“How did you get here?” he asks.
“Christian brought me,” I say, suddenly apprehensive.
“Oh.” José’s face falls and he releases me. “Where is he?” His expression darkens.
“Over there, fetching drinks.” I nod in Christian’s direction and notice that he’s exchanging pleasantries with someone waiting in line. Christian glances up and our eyes lock. And in that brief moment, I’m paralyzed, staring at the impossibly handsome man who gazes at me with some unfathomable emotion. His gaze hot, burning into me, and we’re lost for a moment staring at each other.
Holy cow … This beautiful man wants me back, and deep down inside me sweet joy slowly unfurls like a morning glory in the early dawn.
“Ana!” José distracts me, and I’m dragged back to the here and now. “I am so glad you came—listen, I should warn you—”
Suddenly, Miss Very Short Hair and Red Lipstick cuts him off. “José, the journalist from the Portland Printz is here to see you. Come on.” She gives me a polite smile.
“How cool is this? The fame.” He grins, and I can’t help but grin back—he’s so happy. “Catch you later, Ana.” He kisses my cheek, and I watch him stroll over to a young woman standing by a tall, lanky photographer.
José’s photographs are everywhere, and in some cases, blown up onto huge canvases. There are both monochromes and colors. There’s an ethereal beauty to many of the landscapes. In one taken near the lake at Vancouver, it’s early evening and pink clouds are reflected in the stillness of the water. Briefly, I’m transported by the tranquility and the peace. It’s stunning.
Christian joins me, and hands me my glass of white wine.
“Does it come up to scratch?” My voice sounds more normal.
He looks quizzically at me.
“The wine.”
“No. Rarely does at these kinds of events. The boy’s quite talented, isn’t he?” Christian is admiring the lake photo.
“Why else do you think I asked him to take your portrait?” The pride is obvious in my voice. His eyes glide impassively from the photograph to me.
“Christian Grey?” The photographer from the Portland Printz approaches Christian. “Can I have a picture, sir?”
“Sure.” Christian hides his scowl. I step back, but he grabs my hand and pulls me to his side. The photographer looks at both of us and can’t hide his surprise.
“Mr. Grey, thank you.” He snaps a couple of photos. “Miss …?” he asks.
“Ana Steele,” I reply.
“Thank you, Miss Steele.” He scurries off.
“I looked for pictures of you with dates on the Internet. There aren’t any. That’s why Kate thought you were gay.”
Christian’s mouth twitches into a smile. “That explains your inappropriate question. No, I don’t do dates, Anastasia—only with you. But you know that.” His voice is quiet with sincerity.
“So you never took your”—I glance around nervously to check no one can overhear us—“subs out?”
“Sometimes. Not on dates. Shopping, you know.” He shrugs, his eyes not leaving mine.
Oh, so just in the playroom—his Red Room of Pain and his apartment. I don’t know what to feel about that.
“Just you, Anastasia,” he whispers.
I blush and stare down at my fingers. In his own way, he does care about me.
“Your friend here seems more of a landscape man, not portraits. Let’s look around.” I take his outstretched hand.
We wander past a few more prints, and I notice a couple nodding at me, smiling broadly as if they know me. It must be because I’m with Christian, but one young man is blatantly staring. Odd.
We turn the corner, and I see why I’ve been getting strange looks. Hanging on the far wall are seven huge portraits—of me.
I stare blankly at them, stupefied, the blood draining from my face. Me: pouting, laughing, scowling, serious, amused. All in super close up, all in black and white.
Holy shit! I remember José messing with the camera on a couple of occasions when he was visiting and when I’d been out with him as driver and photographer’s assistant. He took snapshots, or so I thought. Not these invasive candid shots.
Christian is staring, transfixed, at each of the pictures in turn.
“Seems I’m not the only one,” he mutters cryptically, his mouth settling into a hard line.
I think he’s angry.
“Excuse me,” he says, pinning me with his bright gaze for a moment. He heads to the reception desk.
What’s his problem now? I watch mesmerized as he talks animatedly with Miss Very Short Hair and Red Lipstick. He fishes out his wallet and produces his credit card.
Shit. He must have bought one of them.
“Hey. You’re the muse. These photographs are terrific.” A young man with a shock of bright blond hair startles me. I feel a hand at my elbow and Christian is back.
“You’re a lucky guy.” Blond Shock says to Christian, who gives him a cold stare.
“That I am,” he mutters darkly, as he pulls me over to one side.
“Did you just buy one of these?”
“One of these?” he snorts, not taking his eyes off them.
“You bought more than one?”
He rolls his eyes. “I bought them all, Anastasia. I don’t want some stranger ogling you in the privacy of their home.”
My first inclination is to laugh. “You’d rather it was you?” I scoff.
He glares down at me, caught off guard by my audacity, I think, but he’s trying to hide his amusement.
“Frankly, yes.”
“Pervert,” I mouth at him and bite my lower lip to prevent my smile.
His mouth drops open, and now his amusement is obvious. He strokes his chin thoughtfully.
“Can’t argue with that assessment, Anastasia.” He shakes his head, and his eyes soften with humor.
“I’d discuss it further with you, but I’ve signed an NDA.”
He sighs, gazing at me, and his eyes darken. “What I’d like to do to your smart mouth,” he murmurs.
I gasp, knowing full well what he means. “You’re very rude.” I try to sound shocked and succeed. Has he no boundaries?
He smirks, amused then frowns.
“You look very relaxed in these photographs, Anastasia. I don’t see you like that very often.”
What? Whoa! Change of subject—talk about non sequitur—from playful to serious.
I flush and glance down at my fingers. He tilts my head back, and I inhale sharply at the contact with his fingers.
“I want you that relaxed with me,” he whispers. All trace of humor has gone.
Deep inside me that joy stirs again. But how can this be? We have issues.
“You have to stop intimidating me if you want that,” I snap.
“You have to learn to communicate and tell me how you feel,” he snaps back, eyes blazing.
I take a deep breath. “Christian, you wanted me as a submissive. That’s where the problem lies. It’s in the definition of a submissive—you e-mailed it to me once.” I pause, trying to recall the wording. “I think the synonyms were, and I quote, ‘compliant, pliant, amenable, passive, tractable, resigned, patient, docile, tame, subdued.’ I wasn’t supposed to look at you. Not talk to you unless you gave me permission to do so. What do you expect?” I hiss at him.
His frown deepens as I continue.
“It’s very confusing being with you. You don’t want me to defy you, but then you like my ‘smart mouth.’ You want obedience, except when you don’t, so you can punish me. I just don’t know which way is up when I’m with you.”
He narrows his eyes. “Good point well made, as usual, Miss Steele.” His voice is frigid. “Come, let’s go eat.”
“We’ve only been here for half an hour.”
“You’ve seen the photos; you’ve spoken to the boy.”
“His name is José.”
“You’ve spoken to José—the man who, the last time I met him, was trying to push his tongue into your reluctant mouth while you were drunk and sick,” he snarls.
“He’s never hit me,” I spit at him.
Christian scowls, fury emanating from every pore. “That’s a low blow, Anastasia,” he whispers menacingly.
I pale, and Christian runs his hands through his hair, bristling with barely contained anger. I glare back at him.
“I’m taking you for something to eat. You’re fading away in front of me. Find the boy, say good-bye.”
“Please, can we stay longer?”
“No. Go. Now. Say good-bye.”
I glower at him, my blood boiling. Mr. Damned Control Freak. Angry is good. Angry is better than tearful.
I drag my gaze away from him and scan the room for José. He’s talking to a group of young women. I stalk off toward him and away from Fifty. Just because he brought me here, I have to do as he says? Who the hell does he think he is?
The girls are hanging on José’s every word. One of them gasps as I approach, no doubt recognizing me from the portraits.
“José.”
“Ana. Excuse me, girls.” José grins at them and puts his arm around me, and on some level I’m amused—José all smooth, impressing the ladies.
“You look mad,” he says.
“I have to go,” I mutter mulishly.
“You just got here.”
“I know but Christian needs to get back. The pictures are fantastic, José—you’re very talented.”
He beams. “It was so cool seeing you.”
Jose sweeps me into a big bear hug, spinning me so I can see Christian across the gallery. He’s scowling, and I realize it’s because I’m in José’s arms. So in a very calculating move, I wrap my arms around José’s neck. I think Christian is going to expire. His glare darkens to something quite sinister, and slowly he makes his way toward us.
“Thanks for the warning about the portraits of me,” I mumble.
“Shit. Sorry, Ana. I should have told you. D’you like them?”
“Um … I don’t know,” I answer truthfully, momentarily knocked off balance by his question.
“Well, they’re all sold, so somebody likes them. How cool is that? You’re a poster girl.” He hugs me tighter as Christian reaches us, glowering at me now, though fortunately José doesn’t see.
