by E. L. James
He shakes his head, exhaling deeply.
“Let’s go.” He releases my hand and stands, his expression guarded. Have I overstepped the mark? I have no idea. My heart sinks and I don’t know whether to say anything else or just let it go. I decide on the latter and follow him dutifully out of the restaurant.
In the lovely narrow street, he takes my hand.
“Where do you want to go?”
He speaks! And he’s not mad at me—thank heavens. I exhale, relieved, and shrug. “I am just glad you’re still speaking to me.”
“You know I don’t like talking about all that shit. It’s done. Finished,” he says quietly.
No, Christian, it isn’t. The thought saddens me, and for the first time I wonder if it will ever be finished. He’ll always be Fifty Shades … my Fifty Shades. Do I want him to change? No, not really—only insofar as I want him to feel loved. Peeking up at him, I take a moment to admire his captivating beauty … and he’s mine. And it’s not just the allure of his fine, fine face and his body that has me spellbound. It’s what’s behind the perfection that draws me, that calls to me … his fragile, damaged soul.
He gives me that look, down his nose, half amused, half wary, wholly sexy, then tucks me under his arm, and we make our way through the tourists toward the spot where Philippe/Gaston has parked the roomy Mercedes. I slip my hand back into the back pocket of Christian’s shorts, grateful that he isn’t mad. But, honestly, what four-year-old child doesn’t love his mom, no matter how bad a mom she is? I sigh heavily and hug him closer. I know behind us the security team lurks, and I wonder idly if they’ve eaten.
Christian stops outside a small boutique selling fine jewelry and gazes in the window, then down at me. He grasps my free hand and runs his thumb across the faded red line of the handcuff mark, inspecting it.
“It’s not sore,” I reassure him. He twists so that my other hand is freed from his pocket. He clasps that hand, too, turning it gently over to examine my wrist. The platinum Omega watch he gave me at breakfast on our first morning in London obscures the red line. The inscription still makes me swoon.
Anastasia
You Are My More
My Love, My Life
Christian
In spite of everything, all his Fiftyness, my husband can be so romantic. I gaze down at the faint marks on my wrist. Then again, he can be savage sometimes. Releasing my left hand, he tilts my chin up with his fingers and scrutinizes my expression, his eyes troubled.
“They don’t hurt,” I repeat. He pulls my hand to his lips and plants a soft apologetic kiss on the inside of my wrist.
“Come,” he says and leads me into the shop.
“HERE.” CHRISTIAN HOLDS OPEN the platinum bracelet he’s just purchased. It’s exquisite, so delicately crafted, the filigree in the shape of small abstract flowers with small diamonds at their hearts. He fastens it around my wrist. It’s wide and cufflike and hides the red marks. It also cost thirty thousand euros, I think, though I couldn’t really follow the conversation in French with the sales assistant. I have never worn anything so expensive.
“There, that’s better,” he murmurs.
“Better?” I whisper, gazing into luminous gray eyes, conscious that the stick-thin sales assistant is staring at us with a jealous and disapproving look.
“You know why,” Christian says uncertainly.
“I don’t need this.” I shake my wrist and the cuff moves. It catches the afternoon light streaming through the boutique window and small sparkling rainbows dance off the diamonds all over the walls of the store.
“I do,” he says with utter sincerity.
Why? Why does he need this? Does he feel guilty? About what? The marks? His birth mother? Not confiding in me? Oh, Fifty.
“No, Christian, you don’t. You’ve given me so much already. A magical honeymoon, London, Paris, the Cote D’Azur … and you. I’m a very lucky girl,” I whisper, and his eyes soften.
“No, Anastasia, I’m a very lucky man.”
“Thank you.” Stretching up on tiptoes, I put my arms around his neck and kiss him … not for giving me the bracelet but for being mine.
BACK IN THE CAR he’s introspective, gazing out at the fields of bright sunflowers, their heads following and basking in the afternoon sun. One of the twins—I think it’s Gaston—is driving and Taylor is beside him up front. Christian is brooding about something. I clasp his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He glances at me before releasing my hand and caressing my knee. I’m wearing a short, full, blue and white skirt, and a blue, fitted, sleeveless shirt. Christian hesitates, and I don’t know if his hand is going to travel up my thigh or down my leg. I tense with anticipation at the gentle touch of his fingers and my breath catches. What’s he going to do? He chooses down, suddenly grasping my ankle and pulling my foot onto his lap. I swivel my backside so I am facing him in the back of the car.
“I want the other one, too.”
I glance nervously toward Taylor and Gaston, whose eyes are resolutely on the road ahead, and place my other foot on his lap. His eyes cool, he reaches over and presses a button located on his door. In front of us, a lightly tinted privacy screen slides out of a panel, and ten seconds later we are effectively on our own. Wow … no wonder the back of this car has so much legroom.
“I want to look at your ankles,” Christian offers his quiet explanation. His gaze is anxious. The cuff marks? Jeez … I thought we’d dealt with this. If there are marks, they are hidden by my sandal straps. I don’t recall seeing any this morning. Gently, he strokes his thumb up my right instep, making me wriggle. A smile plays on his lips and deftly he undoes one strap, and his smile fades as he’s confronted with the darker red marks.
“Doesn’t hurt,” I murmur. He glances at me and his expression is sad, his mouth a thin line. He nods once as if he’s taking me at my word while I shake my sandal loose so it falls to the floor, but I know I’ve lost him. He’s distracted and brooding again, mechanically caressing my foot while he turns away to gaze out the car window once more.
“Hey. What did you expect?” I ask softly. He glances at me and shrugs.
“I didn’t expect to feel like I do looking at these marks,” he says.
Oh! Reticent one minute and forthcoming the next? How … Fifty! How can I keep up with him?
“How do you feel?”
Bleak eyes gaze at me. “Uncomfortable,” he murmurs.
Oh no. I unbuckle my seat belt and scoot closer to him, leaving my feet in his lap. I want to crawl into his lap and hold him, and I would, if it were just Taylor in the front. But knowing Gaston is there cramps my style despite the partition. If only it were darker. I clutch his hands.
“It’s the hickeys I don’t like,” I whisper. “Everything else … what you did”—I lower my voice even further—“with the handcuffs, I enjoyed that. Well, more than enjoyed. It was mind-blowing. You can do that to me again anytime.”
He shifts in his seat. “Mind-blowing?” My inner goddess looks up, startled, from her Jackie Collins.
“Yes.” I grin. I flex my toes into his hardening crotch and see rather than hear his sharp intake of breath, his lips parting.
“You should really be wearing your seat belt, Mrs. Grey.” His voice is low, and I curl my toes around him once more. He inhales and his eyes darken, and he clasps my ankle in warning. Does he want me stop? Continue? He pauses, scowls, then fishes his ever-present BlackBerry out of his pocket to take an incoming call while glancing at his watch. His frown deepens.
“Barney,” he snaps.
Crap. Work interrupting us again. I try to remove my feet, but he tightens his fingers around my ankle.
“In the server room?” he says in disbelief. “Did it activate the fire suppression system?”
Fire! I take my feet off his lap and this time he lets me. I sit back in my seat, buckle my seat belt, and fiddle nervously with the thirty-thousand-euro bracelet. Christian presses the button on his door armrest again and the priv
acy glass slides down.
“Anyone injured? Damage? I see … When?” Christian glances at his watch again, then runs his fingers through his hair. “No. Not the fire department or the police. Not yet anyway.”
A fire? At Christian’s office? I gape at him, my mind racing. Taylor shifts so he can hear Christian’s conversation.
“Has he? Good … Okay. I want a detailed damage report. And a complete rundown of everyone who had access over the last five days, including the cleaning staff … Get hold of Andrea and get her to call me … Yeah, sounds like the argon is just as effective, worth its weight in gold.”
Damage report? Argon? It rings a distant bell from chemistry class—an element, I think.
“I realize it’s early … E-mail me in two hours … No, I need to know. Thank you for calling me.” Christian hangs up, then immediately punches a number into the BlackBerry.
“Welch … Good … When?” Christian glances at his watch yet again. “An hour then … yes … Twenty-four-seven at the offsite data store … good.” He hangs up.
“Philippe, I need to be onboard within the hour.”
“Monsieur.”
Shit, it’s Philippe, not Gaston. The car surges forward.
Christian glances at me, his expression unreadable.
“Anyone hurt?” I ask quietly.
Christian shakes his head. “Very little damage.” He reaches over and clasps my hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “Don’t worry about this. My team is on it.” And there he is, the CEO, in command, in control, and not flustered at all.
“Where was the fire?”
“Server room.”
“Grey House?”
“Yes.”
His responses are clipped, so I know he doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Why so little damage?”
“The server room is fitted with a state-of-the-art fire suppression system.”
Of course it is.
“Ana, please … don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried,” I lie.
“We don’t know for sure that it was arson,” he says, cutting to the heart of my anxiety. My hand clutches my throat in fear. Charlie Tango and now this?
What next?
CHAPTER FOUR
* * *
I’m restless. Christian has been holed up in the onboard study for over an hour. I have tried reading, watching TV, sunbathing—fully dressed sunbathing—but I can’t relax, and I can’t rid myself of this edgy feeling. After changing into shorts and a T-shirt, I remove the ludicrously expensive cuff and go to find Taylor.
“Mrs. Grey,” he says, startled from his Anthony Burgess novel. He’s sitting in the small salon outside Christian’s study.
“I’d like to go shopping.”
“Yes ma’am.” He stands.
“I’d like to take the Jet Ski.”
His mouth drops open. “Erm.” He frowns, at a loss for words.
“I don’t want to bother Christian with this.”
He represses a sigh. “Mrs. Grey … um … I don’t think Mr. Grey would be very comfortable with that, and I’d like to keep my job.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake! I want to roll my eyes at him, but I narrow them instead, sighing heavily and expressing, I think, the right amount of frustrated indignation that I am not mistress of my own destiny. Then again, I don’t want Christian to be mad at Taylor—or me, for that matter. Striding confidently past him, I knock on the study door and enter.
Christian is on his BlackBerry, leaning against the mahogany desk. He glances up. “Andrea, hold please,” he mutters into phone, his expression serious. His gaze is politely expectant. Shit. Why do I feel like I’ve entered the principal’s office? This man had me in handcuffs yesterday. I refuse to be intimidated by him, he’s my husband, damn it. I square my shoulders and give him a broad smile.
“I’m going shopping. I’ll take security with me.”
“Sure, take one of the twins and Taylor, too,” he says, and I know that whatever’s happening is serious because he doesn’t question me further. I stand staring at him, wondering if I can help.
“Anything else?” he asks. He wants me gone.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask. He smiles his sweet shy smile.
“No, baby, I’m good,” he says. “The crew will look after me.”
“Okay.” I want to kiss him. Hell, I can—he’s my husband. Strolling purposefully forward, I plant a kiss on his lips, surprising him.
“Andrea, I’ll call you back,” he mutters. He puts the BlackBerry down on the desk behind him, pulls me into his embrace, and kisses me passionately. I am breathless when he releases me. His eyes are dark and needy.
“You’re distracting me. I need to sort this out, so I can get back to my honeymoon.” He runs an index finger down my face and caresses my chin, tilting my face up.
“Okay. I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t apologize, Mrs. Grey. I love your distractions.” He kisses the corner of my mouth.
“Go spend some money.” He releases me.
“Will do.” I smirk at him as I exit his study. My subconscious shakes her head and purses her lips. You didn’t tell him you were going on the Jet Ski, she chastises me in her singsongy voice. I ignore her … Harpy.
Taylor is patiently waiting.
“That’s all cleared with high command … Can we go?” I smile, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Taylor doesn’t hide his admiring smile.
“Mrs. Grey, after you.”
TAYLOR PATIENTLY TALKS ME through the controls on the Jet Ski and how to ride it. He has a calm, gentle authority about him; he’s a good teacher. We are in the motor launch, bobbing and weaving on the calm waters of the harbor beside the Fair Lady. Gaston looks on, his expression hidden by his shades, and one of the Fair Lady’s crew is at the controls of the motor launch. Jeez—three people with me, just because I want to go shopping. It’s ridiculous.
Zipping up my life jacket, I give Taylor a beaming grin. He holds out his hand to assist me as I climb onto the Jet Ski.
“Fasten the strap of the ignition key around your wrist, Mrs. Grey. If you fall off, the engine will cut out automatically,” he explains.
“Okay.”
“Ready?”
I nod enthusiastically.
“Press the ignition when you’ve drifted about four feet away from the boat. We’ll follow you.”
“Okay.”
He pushes the Jet Ski away from the launch, and it floats gently into the main harbor. When he gives me the okay sign, I press the ignition button and the engine roars into life.
“Okay, Mrs. Grey, easy does it!” Taylor shouts. I squeeze the accelerator. The Jet Ski lurches forward, then stalls. Crap! How does Christian make it look so easy? I try again, and once again, I stall. Double crap!
“Just steady on the gas, Mrs. Grey,” Taylor calls.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mutter under my breath. I try once more, very gently squeezing the lever, and the Jet Ski lurches forward—but this time it keeps going. Yes! It goes some more. Ha ha! It still keeps going! I want to shout and squeal in excitement, but I resist. I cruise gently away from the yacht into the main harbor. Behind me, I hear the throaty roar of the motor launch. When I squeeze the gas further, the Jet Ski leaps forward, skating across the water. With the warm breeze in my hair and a fine sea spray on either side of me, I feel free. This rocks! No wonder Christian never lets me drive.
Rather than head for the shore and curtail the fun, I veer around to do a circuit of the stately Fair Lady. Wow—this is so much fun. I ignore Taylor and the crew behind me and speed around the yacht for a second time. As I complete the circuit, I spot Christian on deck. I think he’s gaping at me, though it’s difficult to tell. Bravely, I lift one hand from the handlebars and wave enthusiastically at him. He looks like he’s made of stone, but finally he raises his hand in the semblance of a stiff wave. I can’t work out his expression, and something tells me I don’t want to, so I head
to the marina, speeding across the blue water of the Mediterranean, which shimmers in the late afternoon sun.
At the dock, I wait and let Taylor pull up ahead of me. His expression is bleak, and my heart sinks, though Gaston looks vaguely amused. I wonder briefly if something has happened to chill Gallic-American relations, but deep down I suspect the problem is probably me. Gaston leaps out of the motorboat and ties it to the moorings while Taylor directs me to come alongside. Very gently I ease the Jet Ski into position beside the boat and line up beside him. His expression softens a little.
“Just switch off the ignition, Mrs. Grey,” he says calmly, reaching for the handlebars and holding out a hand to help me into the motorboat. I nimbly climb aboard, impressed that I don’t fall in.
“Mrs. Grey,” Taylor says nervously, his cheeks pink once more. “Mr. Grey is not entirely comfortable with you riding on the Jet Ski.” He’s practically squirming with embarrassment, and I realize he’s had an irate call from Christian. Oh, my poor, pathologically overprotective husband, what am I going to do with you?
I smile serenely at Taylor. “I see. Well, Taylor, Mr. Grey is not here, and if he’s not entirely comfortable, I’m sure he’ll give me the courtesy of telling me himself when I’m back on board.”
Taylor winces. “Very good, Mrs. Grey,” he says quietly, handing me my purse.
As I climb out of the boat, I catch a glimpse of his reluctant smile, and it makes me want to smile, too. I cannot believe how fond I am of Taylor, but I really don’t appreciate being scolded by him—he’s not my father or my husband.
I sigh. Christian’s mad—and he has enough to worry about at the moment. What was I thinking? As I stand on the dock waiting for Taylor to climb up, I feel my BlackBerry vibrate in my purse and fish it out. Sade’s “Your Love Is King” is my ring tone for Christian—only for Christian.
“Hi,” I murmur.
“Hi,” he says.
“I’ll come back on the boat. Don’t be mad.”
I hear his small gasp of surprise. “Um …”
“It was fun, though,” I whisper.
