His lips twitch into a smile. "I have missed your smart mouth."
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 has followed 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.
Jeez, 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 so 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 gray 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, smiling 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 to me 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.
"Jose 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 softly.
What? What does that mean? "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 flush and glance around. He's right. It's too public. I press my lips together as he glares down at me.
"Okay," I mutter sulkily. Taking my hand, he leads 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 Jose's work. For a moment, my troubles melt away as I grasp that Jose has realized his dream. Way to go, Jose!
"Good evening and welcome to Jose 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.
How does she know my name?
"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!"
Jose 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, 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, then pauses and abruptly holds me at arm's length, staring at me.
"What?"
"Hey are you okay? You look, well, odd. Dios mio, have you lost weight?"
I blink back my tears. "Jose, I'm fine. I'm just so happy for you." Crap - not him, too.
"Congratulations on the show." My voice wavers as I see his concern 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." Jose's face falls and he releases me. "Where is he?" His expression darkens.
"Over there, fetching drinks." I nod in Christian's direction and see he's exchanging pleasantries with someone waiting in line. Christian glances up when I look his way 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!" Jose 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. "Jose, 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.
Jose'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 out 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 I take a deep breath and swallow, trying to recover some of my earlier equilibrium. He 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?" I can't help the pride 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.
"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 with a smile. "That explains your inappropriate question.
No, I don't do dates, Anastasia - only with you. But you know that." His eyes burn 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 round." He holds his hand out to me, and I take it.
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 can 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 crap! I remember Jose 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 candids.
I glance up at Christian, who 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. Oh no.
"Excuse me," he says, pinning me with his bright gray gaze for a moment. He turns and 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 smirks at 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. Does he have no boundaries?
He smirks at me, amused, and then he 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 long 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.
He blinks, and 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 Jose."
"You've spoken to Jose - the man who, the last time I met him, was trying to push his tongue into your reluctant mouth while you were drunk and ill," he snarls.
"He's never hit me," I spit at him.
Christian scowls at me, fury emanating from every pore. "That's a low blow, Anastasia," he whispers menacingly.
I flush, 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 glare 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 Jose. 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 Jose's every word. One of them gasps as I approach, no doubt recognizing me from the portraits.
"Jose."
"Ana. Excuse me, girls." Jose grins at them and puts his arm around me, and on some level I'm amused - Jose 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, Jose - 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 Jose's arms. So in a very calculating move, I wrap my arms around Jose'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 still as Christian reaches us, glowering at me now, though fortunately Jose doesn't see.
Jose releases me. "Don't be a stranger, Ana. Oh, Mr. Grey, good evening."
"Mr. Rodriguez, very impressive." Christian sounds icily polite. "I'm sorry we can't stay longer, but we need to head back to Seattle. Anastasia?" He subtly stresses we and takes my hand as he does so.
"Bye, Jose. Congratulations again." I give him a quick kiss on the cheek, and before I know it Christian is dragging me out of the building. I know he's boiling with silent wrath, but so am I.
He looks quickly up and down the street then heads left and suddenly sweeps me into a side alley, abruptly pushing me up against a wall. He grabs my face between his hands, forcing me to look up into his ardent determined eyes.
I gasp, and his mouth swoops down. He's kissing me, violently. Briefly our teeth clash, then his tongue is in my mouth.
Desire explodes like the Fourth of July throughout my body, and I'm kissing him back, matching his fervor, my hands knotting in his hair, pulling it, hard. He groans, a low sexy sound in the back of his throat that reverberates through me, and his hand moves down my body to the top of my thigh, his fingers digging into my flesh through the plum dress.
I pour all the angst and heartbreak of the last few days into our kiss, binding him to me, and it hits me - in this moment of blinding passion - he's doing the same, he feels the same.
He breaks off the kiss, panting. His eyes are luminous with desire, firing the already heated blood that is pounding through my body. My mouth is slack as I try to drag precious air into my lungs.
"You. Are. Mine," he snarls, emphasizing each word. He pushes away from me and bends, hands on his knees as if he's run a marathon. "For the love of God, Ana."
I lean against the wall, panting, trying to control the riotous reaction in my body, trying to find my equilibrium again.
"I'm sorry," I whisper once my breath has returned.
"You should be. I know what you were doing. Do you want the photographer, Anastasia? He obviously has feelings for you."
I flush and shake my head.
"No. He's just a friend."
"I have spent all my adult life trying to avoid any extreme emotion. Yet you... you bring out feelings in me that are completely alien. It's very..." He frowns, grasping for the word. "Unsettling.
"I like control, Ana, and around you that just" - he stands, his gaze intense -
"evaporates." He waves his hand vaguely, then runs it through his hair and takes a deep breath. He clasps my hand.
"Come, we need to talk, and you need to eat."
He leads me into a small, intimate restaurant.
"This place will have to do," Christian grumbles. "We don't have much time."
The restaurant looks fine to me. Wooden chairs, linen tablecloths, and walls the same color as Christian's playroom - deep blood red - with small gilt mirrors randomly placed, white candles, and small vases of white roses. Ella Fitzgerald croons softly in the background about this thing called love. It's very romantic.
The waiter leads us to a table for two in a small alcove, and I sit, apprehensive and wondering what he's going to say.
"We don't have long," Christian says to the waiter as we sit. "So we'll each have sirloin steak cooked medium, bearnaise sauce if you have it, fries, and green vegetables, whatever the chef has; and bring me the wine list."
"Certainly, sir." The waiter, taken aback by Christian's cool, calm efficiency, scuttles off. Christian places his Blackberry on the table. Jeez, don't I get a choice?
"And if I don't like steak?"
He sighs. "Don't start, Anastasia."
"I am not a child, Christian."
"Well, stop acting like one."
It's as if he's slapped me. I blink at him. So this is how it will be, an agitated, fraught conversation, albeit in a very romantic setting but certainly no hearts and flowers.
"I'm a child because I don't like steak?" I mutter trying to conceal my hurt.
"For deliberately making me jealous. It's a childish thing to do. Have you no regard for your friend's feelings, leading him on like that?" Christian presses his lips together in a thin line and scowls as the waiter returns with the wine list.
I blush - I hadn't thought of that. Poor Jose - I certainly don't want to encourage him.
Suddenly, I'm mortified. Christian has a point; it was a thoughtless thing to do. He glances at the wine list.
"Would you like to choose the wine?" he asks, raising his eyebrows at me expectantly, arrogance personified. He knows I know nothing about wine.
"You choose," I answer, sullen but chastened.
"Two glasses of the Barossa Valley Shiraz, please."
"Er... we only sell that wine by the bottle, sir."
"A bottle then," Christian snaps.
"Sir." He retreats, subdued, and I don't blame him. I frown at Fifty. What's eating him?
Oh, me probably, and somewhere in the depths of my psyche, my inner goddess rises sleepily, stretches, and smiles. She's been asleep for a while.
"You're very grumpy."
He gazes at me impassively. "I wonder why that is?"
"Well, it's good to set the right tone for an intimate and honest discussion about the future, wouldn't you say?" I smile at him sweetly.
His mouth presses into a hard line, but then, almost reluctantly, his lips lift, and I know he's trying to stifle his smile.
"I'm sorry," he says.
"Apology accepted, and I'm pleased to inform you I haven't decided to become a veg-etarian since we last ate."
"Since that was the last time you ate, I think that's a moot point."
"There's that word again, moot."
"Moot," he mouths and his eyes soften with humor. He runs his hand through his hair, and he's serious again. "Ana, the last time we spoke, you left me. I'm a little nervous. I've told you I want you back, and you've said... nothing." His gaze is intense and expectant while his candor is totally disarming. What the hell do I say to this?
"I've missed you... really missed you, Christian. The past few days have been...
difficult." I swallow, and a lump in my throat swells as I recall my desperate anguish since I left him.
This last week has been the worst in my life, the pain almost indescribable. Nothing has come close. But reality hits home, winding me.
"Nothing's changed. I can't be what you want me to be." I squeeze the words out past the lump in my throat.
"You are what I want you to be," he says, his soft voice emphatic.
"No, Christian, I'm not."
"You're upset because of what happened last time. I behaved stupidly, and you... So did you. Why didn't you safe word, Anastasia?" His tone changes, becoming accusatory.
What? Whoa - change of direction. I flush, blinking at him.
"Answer me."
"I don't know. I was overwhelmed. I was trying to be what you wanted me to be, trying to deal with the pain, and it went out of my mind. You know... I forgot," I whisper ashamed, and I shrug apologetically.
Jeez, perhaps we could have avoided all this heartache.
"You forgot!" he gasps with horror, grabbing the sides of the table and glaring at me.
I wither under his stare.
Shit! He's furious again. My inner goddess glares at me, too. See, you brought all this on yourself!
"How can I trust you?" he says, his voice low. "Ever?"
The waiter arrives with our wine as we sit staring at each other, blue eyes to gray. Both of us filled with unspoken recriminations, while the waiter removes the cork with an un-necessary flourish and pours a little wine into Christian's glass. Automatically Christian reaches out and takes a sip.