by James, E L
What the hell?
I’m lying on top of the bed, cold and stiff.
Dressed?
Why? I open my eyes again, slowly this time, allowing the daylight to creep in. I’m home.
What happened? I struggle to remember, but something, a misdeed maybe, is chafing on my conscience.
Grey. What did you do?
Slowly, my mind draws back the curtains on last night, revealing some of my transgressions.
Drinking.
A keg full.
I sit up, too quickly—my head swims and bile rises in my throat. I force it down while I rub my temples, racking what’s left of my brain to recall what happened. Vague images of the previous evening flash fuzzy and malformed through my mind. Red wine and bourbon?
What was I thinking?
The baby. Fuck.
I lift my head to check on Ana, but she’s not here, and it’s obvious she didn’t sleep in this bed last night.
Where is she?
I take stock of myself. No injuries, but I’m still in yesterday’s clothes, and I stink.
Hell. Did I drive Ana away?
What time is it? I glance at the clock and it’s 7:05 a.m. Shakily, I get to my feet, which are bare. I don’t remember removing my socks.
I rub my forehead.
Where is my wife? Unease yawns in my gut, accompanied by a burning sense of guilt.
Damn, what did I do?
My phone is on the nightstand; I pick it up and stagger to the bathroom. Ana’s not there. Nor is she in the spare room.
Mrs. Jones is in the kitchen. She gives me a cursory glance, then returns to her work. Ana is nowhere to be seen. “Good morning, Gail. Ana?”
“I haven’t seen her, sir.” Her tone is arctic. Mrs. Jones is pissed.
At me?
Why?
Ignoring her, I check the library. Nothing.
My unease blooms.
Studiously avoiding Gail’s frosty gaze, I head back through the living room to check my study and the TV room. Ana is not in there either.
Fuck.
In spite of feeling like shit, I hurry back through the living room, bolt upstairs, and check both of the guest rooms. No Ana.
She’s gone. She’s fucking gone. I dash downstairs, ignoring the stabbing at my temples, and burst into Taylor’s office. He looks up, surprised, I think.
“Ana?”
His face is impassive. “I haven’t seen her, sir.”
“For fuck’s sake, we have how many security personnel here? Where the fuck is my wife?” I explode, and my head pounds. I close my eyes as Taylor’s face pales.
Shit. Get a grip, Grey.
“Did she go out?” I ask, in as measured a tone as I can manage.
“There’s nothing in the log, sir.”
“I can’t find her.” I’m at a loss.
He casts his eyes over the CCTV monitors. “All the vehicles are accounted for. And no one can get in.”
I blanch as I grasp his meaning. Has she been kidnapped?
Taylor notices my expression. “No one can get in, sir,” he repeats for emphasis.
“Leila Williams and Jack Hyde got in!” I snap.
“Miss Williams had a key, and Ryan let Hyde in,” Taylor counters. “I’ll check the apartment, Mr. Grey.”
I nod and follow him out into the hallway.
She wouldn’t leave. Would she? I rack my addled, aching brain and recall a vision of Ana—from last night, I think—dressed in the softest satin, fragrant and beautiful, smiling down at me. Taylor heads off to our bedroom, no doubt to look there, and I don’t stop him. I might have missed something.
My phone!
I could call her.
Wait. There’s a text from her, in very shouty capitals.
ANA
WOULD YOU LIKE MRS. LINCOLN TO JOIN US WHEN
WE EVENTUALLY DISCUSS THIS TEXT SHE SENT YOU?
IT WILL SAVE YOU RUNNING TO HER AFTERWARD.
YOUR WIFE
FORWARDED: ELENA
It was good to see you. I understand now.
Don’t fret. You’ll make a wonderful father.
Oh, shit.
Ana’s been reading my texts.
When?
How dare she?
Anger flares inside me. I press call, and Ana’s phone rings, and rings. And fucking rings. Eventually it diverts to voice mail. “Where the hell are you?” I snarl into my BlackBerry, furious that she’s been reading my texts, furious that she knows about Elena, furious with Elena—but most of all, I’m furious at myself and at the clawing fear that threatens to choke me. She’s missing.
Ana, where the fuck are you? Perhaps she’s left me.
Where would she go? Kate. Of course. I call Kavanagh.
“Hello.” Kate answers after several rings, her voice thick with sleep.
“It’s Christian.”
“Christian? What is it? Is Ana okay?” Kate is fully awake and instantly adopts her familiar badgering tone, which I do not need right now.
“She’s not with you?” I ask.
“No. Should she be?”
“No. Don’t worry. Go back to sleep.”
“Chris—” I hang up.
My head is pounding and my wife is missing. This is hell. I’m in hell. I try Ana’s phone and again it diverts to voice mail. I storm into the kitchen where Gail is making coffee. “Can you get me some Advil, please?” I’m as gracious as a man with a missing wife can be. She stifles a smile.
Is she smiling because I’m suffering?
I scowl at her as she wordlessly places a container of Advil on the counter and turns to fill a glass of water, leaving me to struggle with the childproof lid. Eventually, I manage to pry two tablets from the plastic tub as stony-faced Mrs. Jones places water in front of me.
Glaring at her, I tip both pills into my mouth, but she turns back to the stove. I take a sip.
Hell. The water is lukewarm; it tastes awful.
I glower at her; she’s done this on purpose. Slamming the glass down on the counter, I turn and stomp back upstairs to look for Ana, hoping that the capsules will settle the storm in my head.
Taylor is emerging from what was the submissives’ room. He looks grim. I try the playroom door. It’s locked, but in my frustration, I rattle it anyway just to make sure, and bellow Ana’s name down the corridor. Immediately I regret raising my voice, as pain lances through my head.
“Any luck?” I ask Taylor.
“No, sir. I’ve checked the gym, and roused Sawyer and Ryan. They’re searching the staff quarters.”
“Good. We need a plan.”
“We’ll meet downstairs.”
Back in the kitchen, we’re joined by Sawyer and Ryan; Ryan looks like he’s had less sleep than me.
“Mrs. Grey is missing,” I growl at them. “Sawyer, check the CCTV footage and see if you can track her movements. Ryan, Taylor, let’s search the apartment again.”
All of them suddenly look shocked—their eyes wide, their mouths dropping open.
What?
A movement from the corner of my eye catches my attention.
It’s Ana.
Thank Christ. She’s here. For a moment my relief is overwhelming, but as Ana stands and surveys us, I see she’s cool and distant, her eyes wide, but with telltale dark circles beneath. She’s wrapped in a duvet—small, pale, and utterly beautiful.
And mad as hell.
As I drink her in, a sense of foreboding creeps up my spine, raising all the hair on the back of my head. She squares her narrow shoulders, raises her chin in that stubborn way she does, and completely ignoring me, addresses Luke. “Sawyer, I’ll be ready to leave in about twenty minutes.” She tightens the duvet around her, keeping her chin high.
“Would you like some breakfast, Mrs. Grey?” Gail asks, in such a sweet, solicitous tone that I turn to look at her in surprise. Her eyes slide to me, as frigid as ever.
Ana shakes her head. “I’m not hungry, thank you.” Her voice is soft and clear, but her expression’s implacable. Is she not eating in order to punish me? Is that what this is? But now is not the time for that argument.
“Where were you?” I ask, bemused. Behind me there’s a sudden burst of activity as my staff make themselves scarce. I ignore them, as does Ana. She turns and heads toward our bedroom.
“Ana! Answer me!”
Don’t fucking ignore me!
I follow in her stately wake down the hallway, into our suite, until she turns into our bathroom, shuts the door, and locks it.
Shit!
“Ana!” I thump on the door, then try the handle. “Ana, open the damned door.”
Why is she doing this? Because I walked out last night? Because I saw Elena?
“Go away!” she shouts over the sound of gushing water from the shower.
“I’m not going anywhere!”
“Suit yourself.”
“Ana, please.” I rattle the door once more in an effort to express my anger, but I feel nothing except impotent rage. How dare she lock the door? It takes all my self-control not to break it down, but given her attitude, and my headache, that probably wouldn’t be a wise choice.
Why is she so mad?
She’s mad?
After the ten-fingered, ten-toed bombshell she dropped on me?
Or is it because I got drunk?
Deep down I know the problem.
Elena. Why couldn’t Mrs. Lincoln keep her thoughts to herself?
I knew it was a mistake to see her.
I knew it in the bar.
This is a fuckup, Grey.
Well, as my mother always likes to say, it takes two to tango. Wives get mad at their husbands all the time. Don’t they? This is normal, surely. I scowl at the locked door.
What can I do?
Find your happy place. Flynn’s words invade my thoughts as I lean against the wall.
Well, my happy place is not fucking standing here.
My happy place is in the shower.
But I don’t have a choice.
My head is thumping. At least the sound of the rushing water from the shower is less painful than my shouting. Otherwise, it’s all quiet. I contemplate going to have a shower myself, in the spare room. But she might duck out on me. Sighing, I run my hand through my hair, reconciled to waiting for Mrs. Grey.
Again.
Like I always do.
My mind drifts to the previous evening. To Elena. What did we talk about? As I try to remember, my sense of unease returns. What did we discuss? My business. Yes. Her business. Isaac. The fact that Ana wants kids. I didn’t actually tell Elena that Ana was pregnant. Did I?
No. Thank Christ.
Spawn. I snort. That’s the term Elena used.
And she apologized. Now, that is a first.
What else did we talk about? There’s something hovering at the edge of my consciousness. Damn. Why did I get so drunk? I loathe being out of control. I loathe drunks.
A darker memory surfaces—not from last night, one that I try to bury. That man. The crack whore’s fucking pimp, drunk on cheap liquor and whatever he could jack into his system and the crack whore’s system.
Fuck.
This is not my happy place. A cold sweat breaks out over my skin as I recall the stench emanating from his unwashed body, and from the Camel cigarette jammed between his teeth. I take a deep, long breath to quell my rising panic.
It’s in the past, Grey.
Stay calm.
The door clicks and I open my eyes to see Mrs. Anastasia Grey, wrapped in two towels, emerge from the bathroom. She strides right past me as if I’m invisible and disappears into the closet. I follow her and stand on the threshold, watching as she ever-so-casually selects her outfit for the day.
“Are you ignoring me?” The disbelief is evident in my voice.
“Perceptive, aren’t you?” she mutters, as if I’m some kind of afterthought.
I watch her. Helpless. What do I do?
Her clothes are in her hands as she waltzes toward me and halts, finally looking me in the eye, a “get out of my way, asshole” expression on her face. I really am in deep shit. I’ve never seen her this mad, except maybe that time she threw a hairbrush at me on the Fair Lady. I step out of her way, when really all I want to do is grab her, press her against the wall, and kiss her—kiss her senseless. Then bury myself inside her. But I follow her like a fucking lapdog into the bedroom and stand in the doorway as she saunters over to her chest of drawers. How can she be so nonchalant?
Look at me! I will her.
She loosens the towel that’s cloaked around her body and drops it to the floor. My dick stirs in response, making me angrier. Christ, she’s beautiful; her flawless skin, the soft flare of her hips, the swell of her behind, and her long, long legs that I want wrapped around me. Her body shows no sign of the invader yet. Christ, I have no idea how pregnant she is.
Shit. I put Junior out of my mind.
How long will it take me to get her into bed?
Grey, no—keep it together.
She’s still ignoring me. “Why are you doing this?” I try to hide the desperation in my voice.
“Why do you think?” She fishes some lingerie out of a drawer.
“Ana—” My breath catches in my throat as she bends and tugs on her panties, wiggling her fine, fine ass. She’s doing this on purpose. And in spite of my aching head, and my filthy mood, I want to fuck her. Now. Just to make sure we’re okay. My growing erection concurs.
“Go ask your Mrs. Robinson. I’m sure she’ll have an explanation for you.” She rifles through her drawer, dismissing me, as if I’m some fucking lackey.
As I thought, it’s Elena.
What did you expect, Grey?
“Ana, I’ve told you before, she’s not my—”
“I don’t want to hear it, Christian.” Ana holds up her hand. “The time for talking was yesterday, but instead you decided to rant, and get drunk with the woman who abused you for years. Give her a call. I’m sure she’ll be more than willing to listen to you now.”
What?
Ana chooses a bra—the black lacy one—and slides it on and fastens it. I stride farther into the room and place my hands on my hips, glaring at her. She’s crossed a line.
“Why were you snooping on me?” I can’t believe she went through my texts.
“That’s not the point, Christian,” she hisses. “Fact is, the going gets tough, and you run to her.”
“It wasn’t like that—”
“I’m not interested!” She stalks over to the bed while I gaze at her. Lost. She’s so cold. Who is this woman?
Sitting down, she stretches out a long, shapely leg, points her toes, and slowly eases one thigh-high up over her skin. My mouth goes from parched to desert as I watch her hands glide up her leg.
“Where were you?” It’s the only coherent sentence I can form. Ignoring me, she pulls on the other thigh-high with the same slow, sensual ease. Then she stands, turns away from me, and bends over to towel-dry her hair, her back in a perfect curve. It takes every remaining shred of my self-control not to grab her and toss her onto the bed. She stands up straight again, flicking her thick, wet mane of chestnut hair, so it cascades down her back below her bra line.
“Answer me,” I murmur. But she merely stalks back to the chest of drawers, picks up her hair dryer, and switches it on, wielding it like a weapon. The noise grates on my frayed nerves, unraveling them further.
What do I
do when my wife ignores me?
I’m at a loss.
She rakes her fingers through her hair as she dries it and I fist my hands to stop myself from reaching out to her. I’m desperate to touch her and end this nonsense. But the memory of her hissing at me with such venom after the belting in the playroom comes to mind.
You are one fucked-up son of a bitch.
I pale. I don’t want a repeat of that.
Ever.
I watch her, wordless and mesmerized. It was only a few days ago that she let me dry her hair. She finishes with a flourish, her hair a riotous crown of chestnut streaked with red and gold that tumbles down over her shoulders. She is doing this on purpose. The thought revives my anger.
“Where were you?” I whisper.
“What do you care?”
“Ana, stop this. Now.”
She shrugs, like she doesn’t care, and my blood boils. I move quickly toward her, unsure what I’m going to do, but she whirls to face me like an avenging angel. “Don’t touch me,” she snarls through clenched teeth, and I’m catapulted back to that moment in my playroom when she left.
It’s sobering.
“Where were you?” I clench my fists to stop my hands from shaking.
“I wasn’t out getting drunk with my ex.” Her eyes blaze with righteous indignation. “Did you sleep with her?”
It’s like she’s punched me in the face.
I gasp. “What? No!” How could she think that? Sleep with Elena? “You think I’d cheat on you?” Christ, she thinks so little of me. A knot twists in my gut, and a memory, lost in a mist of red wine and bourbon, stirs.
“You did,” Ana continues. “By taking our very private life and spilling your spineless guts to that woman.”
“Spineless. That’s what you think?” Jesus, I thought I’d fucked up, but this is so much worse than I’d feared.
“Christian, I saw the text. That’s what I know.”
“That text was not meant for you!”
“Well, fact is I saw it when your BlackBerry fell out of your jacket, while I was undressing you because you were too drunk to undress yourself. Do you have any idea how much you’ve hurt me by going to see that woman?” She doesn’t pause for breath. “Do you remember last night when you came home? Remember what you said?”
