by James, E L
Tears well in her eyes.
“Don’t cry,” I whisper, brushing away a stray tear with my thumb.
“Why won’t you talk to me? Please, Christian.”
I close my eyes.
Talking about it makes it real, Ana.
“I vowed I would bring you solace in times of need. Please don’t make me break my vows,” she pleads.
I have no defenses against her.
I love her.
Before Ana, I didn’t feel anything. And now, I feel everything. Every emotion is so heightened. It’s hard to process. Hard to understand.
Her expression hasn’t changed. She’s begging me.
I sigh, defeated. “It’s arson,” I whisper, as if this is a huge failing on my part. “And my biggest worry is that they are after me. And if they are after me—” The next thought is unbearable.
“They might get me,” Ana finishes the sentence in a whisper and caresses my face as her eyes soften. “Thank you.”
“What for?”
“For telling me.”
I shake my head. “You can be very persuasive, Mrs. Grey.”
“And you can brood and internalize all your feelings and worry yourself to death. You’ll probably die of a heart attack before you’re forty, and I want you around far longer than that.”
“You’ll be the death of me. The sight of you on the Jet Ski—I nearly did have a coronary.” I flop back on the bed and cover my eyes with the back of my hand to blot out the memory. But it doesn’t work. In my mind, she’s lying on the cold, hard floor. I shudder.
“Christian, it’s a Jet Ski. Even kids ride Jet Skis. Can you imagine what you’ll be like when we visit your place in Aspen and I go skiing for the first time?”
I gasp and turn to look at her, alarmed. Skiing. No!
“Our place,” I remind her.
She’s wearing that smile—the one I stare at every day in my office. Is she laughing at me? No. I don’t think so. It’s her compassion. “I’m a grown-up, Christian, and much tougher than I look. When are you going to learn this?”
I shrug. She doesn’t look tough to me—not when I see her out cold on a sticky green rug.
“So, the fire. Do the police know about the arson?”
“Yes,” I respond.
“Good.”
“Security is going to get tighter,” I tell her.
“I understand.” Her eyes sweep down over my body, and suddenly her lips quirk up.
“What?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You. Still dressed.”
“Oh.” I glance down. I’m still dressed. I grin when I look back at Ana and let her know how hard it is for me to keep my hands off of her, especially when she’s giggling.
Her eyes brighten immediately and she moves quickly, straddling me.
Shit. I grab her wrists, somehow knowing what she’s going to do.
“No,” I whisper, as the darkness makes an unwelcome return to my chest, ready to claw its way out. I take a deep breath. “Please don’t,” I plead. “I couldn’t bear it. I was never tickled as a child.” Ana puts her hands down and I continue, “I used to watch Carrick with Elliot and Mia, tickling them, and it looked like such fun, but I, I—”
She puts her finger on my lips. “Hush, I know.” She removes her finger and plants a sweet kiss in its place. Scooting down, she rests her cheek to my chest, and I hold her, pressing my nose into her hair. Her scent is soothing, mixed with the pungent fragrance of sex. We lie for several minutes in our calm after the storm, before she interrupts our quiet, comfortable silence. “What is the longest you’ve gone without seeing Dr. Flynn?”
“Two weeks. Why? Do you have an incorrigible urge to tickle me?”
“No.” She laughs. “I think he helps you.”
I snort. “He should. I pay him enough.” I stroke her hair and she turns her face to me. “Are you concerned for my well-being, Mrs. Grey?”
“Every good wife is concerned for her beloved husband’s well-being, Mr. Grey.”
“Beloved?” I whisper, wanting to say the word out loud, to hear it ring between us with all its significance.
“Very much beloved.” She leans up to kiss me.
It’s a relief that she knows the truth and yet she still loves me. My anxiety has evaporated, replaced by hunger. I smile down at her. “Do you want to go ashore to eat?”
“I want to eat wherever you’re happiest.”
“Good. Aboard is where I can keep you safe. Thank you for my present.” I reach for it and, turning it around, hold it at arm’s length and snap a picture of the two of us wrapped around each other.
We take coffee post-dinner inside the impressive dining room on the Fair Lady. “What are you thinking about?” I ask, as Ana looks wistfully out the window.
“Versailles.”
“Ostentatious, wasn’t it?”
Ana looks at our surroundings.
“This is hardly ostentatious,” I observe.
“I know. It’s lovely. The best honeymoon a girl could want.”
“Really?” I smile. Pleased.
“Of course it is.”
“We only have two more days. Is there anything you’d like to see or do?”
“Just be with you,” she says.
I rise and come around the table and drop a kiss on her forehead
“Well, can you do without me for about an hour? I need to check my e-mails, find out what’s happening at home.”
“Sure,” she says.
“Thank you for the camera.”
As I head into the study, I notice that for some reason, I’m feeling far more settled. Could it be the delicious dinner, the sex, or telling Ana about the arson? It could be a combination of all those. I pull my phone out of my pocket and notice a missed call from my dad.
“Son,” he says when he answers his phone.
“Hi, Dad.”
“How’s the South of France?”
“It’s great.”
“And Ana?”
“She’s great, too.” I can’t help my smile.
“You sound happy.”
“Yes. The only fly in the ointment is the fire.”
“Your mother told me about that. But not much damage, I hear.”
“No.”
“What’s the matter, Christian?” He adopts a serious tone, probably in response to my monosyllabic reply.
“It was arson.”
“Shit. Police involved?”
“Yes.”
“Good. This and your helicopter. It’s a lot to deal with.”
“Welch is on it. But we don’t have a clue who it might be. Have you noticed anything unusual?”
“No, I can’t say that I have. But I’ll keep a watchful eye.”
“Do,” I insist.
“Is the jet safe?” he asks.
“The Gulfstream? Yes. I think so.”
“Perhaps you should fly back commercial.”
Why?
“It’s just a thought. I don’t want to worry you. I’ll let you go.”
“Thanks for checking in, Dad.”
“Christian. I’m here for you. Always. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He hangs up, and I wonder what he’s going to do with the information I’ve just given him. I don’t dwell on it, but call Ros for an update.
I’m still on the phone when Ana pops her head around the door later. She blows a kiss at me and leaves me to my conversation with Andrea, who is sorting our flights back to Seattle.
Ana is curled up asleep when I return to our cabin. I slip into bed beside her and pull her into my arms without waking her. I kiss her hair and close my eyes.
I have to keep her safe. I have to keep her safe…
Saturday
, August 20, 2011
Through the lens, I watch my wife sleep soundly at last. Earlier, Ana was talking, begging someone in her dreams not to go. I wonder who? Me? Where would I go without her? She’s been plagued by nightmares since the arson at Grey House was confirmed. She’s even taken to sucking her thumb on the odd occasion while she sleeps. I wonder if it might have been better for us to fly home earlier. But I was reluctant to leave the tranquility of Fair Lady, and so was Ana. And at least I’ve been able to comfort her after her night terrors—hold her. Soothe her. Like she holds me, when I have mine.
We have to catch this asshole.
How dare he, or she, frighten my wife.
I’ve taken my father’s advice and we’re flying commercial. It’s been a while for me, but Ana has never flown international first class, so it will be a new experience for her. We’re leaving out of London, and I’ve grounded the jet in Nice until it’s had a thorough inspection. I’m not taking any chances, not with my crew and not with my wife.
Apart from the nightmares, the remaining days of our honeymoon have been blissful. Reading. Eating. Swimming. Sunbathing on board. Making love. These have been magical days. There’s just one more activity I want to do, before we go.
I push the shutter and hope that the sound won’t wake her. The camera’s been a welcome gift, and I’ve rediscovered my passion for photography. We’re in such a splendid, photogenic setting after all; the Fair Lady is yar.
Ana stirs and stretches her hand out, to my side of the bed, looking for me. The gesture warms my heart.
I’m not far away, baby.
She opens her eyes, startled, I think, so I put the camera on the floor and quickly lie down beside her. “Hey, don’t panic. Everything’s fine,” I whisper. I hate her wary look. I push her hair off her face. “You’ve been so jumpy these last couple of days.”
“I’m okay, Christian,” she lies. Her forced smile is for my sake. “Were you watching me sleep?”
“Yes. You were talking.”
“Oh?” Her eyes widen.
“You’re worried.” I kiss the soft spot above her nose to try to reassure her. “When you frown, a little v forms just here. It’s soft to kiss. Don’t worry, baby, I’ll look after you.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about, it’s you,” she grumbles. “Who’s looking after you?”
“I’m big enough and ugly enough to look after myself. Come. Get up. There’s one thing I’d like to do before we head home.”
Something fun.
I slap her ass, and I’m rewarded with a gratifying squeal.
I bound off the bed, and she follows.
“Shower later. Put your swimsuit on.”
“Okay.”
The crew have lowered the Jet Ski into the water. My life vest is on, and I’m helping Ana into hers. I strap the ignition key and kill cord to her wrist.
“You want me to drive?” she asks, incredulous.
“Yes.” I grin. “That’s not too tight?”
“It’s fine. Is that why you’re wearing a life jacket?” She arches a brow, unimpressed.
“Yes.”
“Such confidence in my driving capabilities, Mr. Grey.”
“As ever, Mrs. Grey.”
“Well, don’t lecture me,” she warns, and I know she’s talking from bitter experience.
I hold up my palms in surrender. “Would I dare?”
“Yes, you would, and yes, you do, and we can’t pull over and argue on the sidewalk here.”
“Fair point well made, Mrs. Grey. Are we going to stand on this platform all day debating your driving skills, or are we going to have some fun?”
“Fair point well made, Mr. Grey.” She climbs onto the craft, and I slide on behind her and look up to find we’ve attracted a small audience on deck: the crew, our French security, and Taylor. I kick us away from the small pontoon and wrap my arms and clamp my thighs around Ana. She inserts the ignition key, presses the start button, and the engine powers into life with a gutsy roar. “Ready?” she shouts.
“As I’ll ever be.”
Slowly, she opens up the accelerator and the Jet Ski glides away from the ship.
Steady, Ana.
I tighten my hold on her as Ana increases our speed and we shoot across the water. “Whoa!” I shout, but it doesn’t stop her. She leans forward, taking me with her, and speeds toward the open sea, then veers toward the shore, where the runway at Nice airport juts out into the Mediterranean.
“Next time we do this we’ll have two Jet Skis,” I shout.
That would be fun. Racing together.
Ana soars across the waves. We bounce a little, as it’s choppier on the water today with the brisk summer breeze. As she nears the shore, a plane flies overheard. The noise is deafening.
Shit.
Ana swerves suddenly. I shout, but I’m too late, and we’re both bucked off the craft and into the Mediterranean. The water closes over my head, into my eyes and my mouth, but I kick up and surface immediately, shaking my head and looking for Ana. The Jet Ski bobs, lifeless and harmless, not far from us, and Ana is wiping the water from her eyes. I swim toward her, relieved she’s surfaced. “You okay?” I ask when I get close.
“Yes,” she croaks. And she’s grinning from ear to ear.
Why is she smiling? She just catapulted us into the cold sea.
I pull her into my wet embrace and hold her face between my palms, checking to see that she wasn’t hit by the Jet Ski.
“See, that wasn’t so bad!” she gushes, and I know she’s okay.
“No, I guess it wasn’t. Except I’m wet.”
“I’m wet, too.”
“I like you wet.” I leer at her.
“Christian!” She admonishes me for my lewd look, and I can’t help myself. I kiss her.
No.
I consume her. We’re both winded when I pull away.
“Come. Let’s head back. We have to shower. I’ll drive.” I swim over to the Jet Ski, vault onto it, and pull her up behind me.
“Was that fun, Mrs. Grey?”
“It was. Thank you.”
“No, thank you. Shall we go home now?”
“Yes. Please.”
Anastasia is sipping champagne and reading off her iPad as we sit in the Concorde lounge at Heathrow and wait for our connecting flight to Seattle. This is one of the things I loathe about traveling on a scheduled flight: the waiting. But Ana seems happy enough. Occasionally, from the corner of my eye, I notice her surreptitious glances in my direction.
Inside, I’m dancing. I love that she’s watching me.
I’m reading the Financial Times. It makes for sober reading. The global markets are still skittish in the wake of the recent budget deficit issues and Black Monday. The dollar is sinking. Also there’s an article on whether the rich should pay more tax; Warren Buffett seems to think we should, and maybe he’s right.
Ana takes a photograph, with the flash on, surprising me. I blink the blur of the bright lights out of my eyes and watch as she switches the flash off.
“How are you, Mrs. Grey?” I ask.
“Sad to be going home.” She pouts. “I like having you to myself.”
I take her hand and kiss her knuckles in turn. “Me, too,” I whisper.
“But?” she asks.
Damn. She heard my unspoken doubt. Her eyes narrow, shrewd and interrogative. She’s not going to let this go until I tell her. I sigh. “I want this arsonist caught and out of our lives.”
“Oh.”
Exactly.
“I’ll have Welch’s balls on a platter if he lets anything like that happen again.” My tone sounds cold and sinister, even to me.
But this has gone on too long. We need to catch the fucker.
Ana gapes at me, then raises the camera and takes a quic
k shot. “Gotcha.”
I smile, relieved that she’s lightened the mood. “I think it’s time to board our flight. Come.”
“Sawyer, can we go through the front?” I ask, and he pulls the Audi up to the curb outside Escala. Taylor climbs out and opens my door. Ana is fast asleep.
“Thanks, Taylor,” I say as I stretch my legs. “It’s good to be back.”
“It is, sir.”
“I’ll wake Ana.” Opening her door, I lean over her. “Hey, sleepyhead, we’re home.” I unbuckle her seat belt.
“Hmm,” she hums, and I lift her into my arms. “Hey, I can walk,” she grumbles sleepily.
Oh, no, baby. “I need to carry you over the threshold.”
She puts her arms around my neck. “Up all thirty floors?”
“Mrs. Grey, I am very pleased to announce that you’ve put on some weight.”
“What?”
“So, if you don’t mind, we’ll use the elevator.”
Taylor opens the doors to the Escala lobby and smiles. “Welcome home, Mr. Grey, Mrs. Grey.”
“Thanks, Taylor,” I answer.
We head into the lobby. “What do you mean I’ve put on weight?” Ana glares at me.
She’s pissed.
“Not much.” I grin to reassure her. Tightening my hold on her as I walk to the elevator, I recall how she looked when I picked her up from SIP, after we split up. How thin and sad she was. The memory is sobering.
“What is it?” she asks.
“You’ve put on some of the weight you lost when you left me.” My answer is quiet. That was me. I was responsible for her sadness.
I never want to see her like that again.
I press the call button.
“Hey.” Ana caresses my face and her fingers entwine in my hair. “If I hadn’t gone, would you be standing here, like this, now?”
And just like that, she pours oil on my troubled waters.
“No.” I smile. Because it’s true. I step into the elevator, holding my wife, and lightly brush my lips over hers. “No, Mrs. Grey, I wouldn’t. But I would know I could keep you safe, because you wouldn’t defy me.”
“I like defying you,” she says with her coquettish smile.
