My hands travel slowly down over his taut stomach to his belly. He places both his hands on mine and brings them to an abrupt halt. He shakes his head.
"Don't," he warns.
I release him, immediately. He's saying no? My mind goes into free fall—has this ever happened before? My subconscious shakes her head, her lips pursed. She glares at me over her half-moon glasses, wearing her you've-really-f*cked-up-this-time look. I feel like I've been slapped, hard. Rejected. And a lifetime of in-security spawns the ugly thought he doesn't want me anymore. I gasp as the pain sears through me. Christian turns, and I'm relieved to see he's not completely oblivious to my charms. Grasping my chin, he tilts my head back, and I find myself gazing into his wary, beautiful eyes.
"I'm still f*cking mad at you," he says, his voice quiet and serious. Shit!
Leaning down, he rests his forehead against mine, closing his eyes. I reach up and caress his face.
"Don't be mad at me, please. I think you're overreacting," I whisper.
He straightens, blanching. My hand falls free to my side.
"Overreacting?" he snarls. "Some f*cking lunatic gets into my apartment to kidnap my wife, and you think I'm overreacting!" The restrained menace in his voice is frightening, and his eyes blaze as he stares at me as if I'm the f*cking lunatic.
"No . . . um, that's not what I was referring to. I thought this was about me staying out."
He closes his eyes once more as if in pain and shakes his head.
"Christian, I wasn't here." I try to appease and reassure him.
"I know," he whispers opening his eyes. "And all because you can't follow a simple, f*cking request." His tone is bitter and it's my turn to blanch. "I don't want to discuss this now, in the shower. I am still f*cking mad at you, Anastasia.
You're making me question my judgment." He turns and promptly leaves the shower, grabbing a towel on the way and stalking out of the bathroom, leaving me bereft and chilled under the hot water.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
Then the significance of what he's just said dawns on me. Kidnap? F*ck.
Jack wanted to kidnap me? I recall the duct tape and not wanting to think too deeply about why Jack had that. Does Christian have more information? Hurriedly I wash myself, then shampoo and rinse my hair. I want to know. I need to know. I am not going to let him keep me in the dark about this.
Christian's not in the bedroom when I come out. Jeez, he dresses quickly. I do the same, throwing on my favorite plum dress and black sandals, and I'm conscious that I've chosen this outfit because Christian likes it. I vigorously towel-dry my hair, then braid it and wind it into a bun. Fitting diamond studs into my ears, I dash to the bathroom to apply a little mascara and glance at myself in the mirror.
I'm pale. Jeez, I'm always pale. I take a deep steadying breath. I need to face the consequences of my rash decision to actually enjoy myself with my friend. I sigh, knowing that Christian won't see it that way.
Christian is nowhere to be seen in the great room. Mrs. Jones is busying herself in the kitchen.
"Good morning, Ana," she says sweetly.
"Morning," I smile broadly at her. I am Ana again!
"Tea?"
"Please."
"Anything to eat?"
"Please. I'd like an omelet this morning."
"With mushrooms and spinach?"
"And cheese."
"Coming up."
"Where's Christian?"
"Mr. Grey's in his study."
"Has he had breakfast?" I glance at the two places set on the breakfast bar.
"No, ma'am."
"Thanks."
Christian is on the phone, dressed in a white shirt with no tie, looking like every part the relaxed CEO. How deceptive appearances can be. Perhaps he's not going into the office after all. He glances up when I appear in the doorway but shakes his head at me, indicating that I am not welcome. Shit . . . I turn and wander dejectedly back to the breakfast bar. Taylor appears, snappily dressed in a somber suit, looking like he's had eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.
"Morning, Taylor," I murmur, trying to gauge his mood and see if he'll offer me any visual cues about what has been going on.
"Good morning, Mrs. Grey," he replies, and I hear the sympathy in those four words. I smile compassionately back at him, knowing he had to endure an angry, frustrated Christian returning to Seattle way ahead of schedule.
"How was the flight?" I dare to ask.
"Long, Mrs. Grey." His brevity speaks volumes. "May I ask how you are?" he adds, his tone softening.
"I'm good."
He nods. "If you'll excuse me." He heads toward Christian's study. Hmm.
Taylor's allowed in, but not me.
"Here you go." Mrs. Jones places my breakfast in front of me. My appetite has vanished, but I eat anyway, not wishing to offend her.
By the time I've finished what I can of my breakfast, Christian has still not emerged from his study. Is he avoiding me?
"Thanks, Mrs. Jones," I murmur, sliding off the bar stool and making my way to the bathroom to clean my teeth. As I brush them, I'm reminded of Christian's sulk over the wedding vows. He holed up in his study then, too. Is that what this is? Him sulking? I shudder as I recall his subsequent nightmare. Will that happen again? We really need to talk. I need to know about Jack and about the increased security for the Greys—all the details that have been kept from me, but not from Kate. Obviously Elliot talks to her.
I glance at my watch. It's eight fifty—I'm late for work. I finish brushing my teeth, apply a little lip gloss, grab my lightweight black jacket, and head back to the great room. I am relieved to see Christian there, eating his breakfast.
"You're going?" he says when he sees me.
"To work? Yes, of course." Bravely, I walk toward him and rest my hands on the edge of the breakfast bar. He gazes at me blankly.
"Christian, we've hardly been back a week. I have to go to work."
"But—" He stops, and rakes his hand through his hair. Mrs. Jones walks quietly out of the room. Discreet, Gail, discreet.
"I know we have a great deal to talk about. Perhaps if you've calmed down, we can do it this evening."
His mouth pops open with dismay. "Calmed down?" His voice is eerily soft.
I flush. "You know what I mean."
"No, Anastasia, I don't know what you mean."
"I don't want a fight. I was coming to ask you if I could take my car."
"No. You can't," he snaps.
"Okay." I acquiesce immediately.
He blinks. He was obviously expecting a fight. "Prescott will accompany you." His tone is slightly less belligerent.
Dammit, not Prescott. I want to pout and protest but decide against it. Surely now Jack has been caught we can cut back on our security.
I remember my mom's "words of wisdom" talk the day before my wedding.
Ana, honey, you really have to choose your battles. It'll be the same with your kids when you have them. Well, at least he's letting me go to work.
"Okay," I mutter. And because I don't want to leave him like this with so much unresolved and so much tension between us, I step tentatively toward him.
He stiffens, his eyes widening, and for a moment he looks so vulnerable it pulls at some deep, dark place in my heart. Oh, Christian, I'm so sorry. I kiss him chastely on the side of his mouth. He closes his eyes as if relishing my touch.
"Don't hate me," I whisper.
He grabs my hand. "I don't hate you."
"You haven't kissed me," I whisper.
He eyes me suspiciously. "I know," he mutters.
I'm desperate to ask him why, but I'm not sure I want to know the answer.
Abruptly he stands and grabs my face between his hands, and in a flash his lips are hard on mine. I gasp with surprise, inadvertently granting his tongue access.
He takes full advantage, invading my mouth, claiming me, and just as I'm beginning to respond he releases me, his breathing quickening.
"Taylor will take you and Prescott to SIP," he says, his eyes flaring with need. "Taylor!" he calls. I flush, trying to recover some composure.
"Sir." Taylor is standing in the doorway.
"Tell Prescott Mrs. Grey is going to work. Can you drive them, please?"
"Certainly." Turning on his heel, Taylor disappears.
"If you could try to stay out of trouble today, I would appreciate it," Christian mutters.
"I'll see what I can do." I smile sweetly. A reluctant half smile tugs at Christian's lips, but he doesn't give in to it.
"I'll see you later, then," he says coolly.
"Laters," I whisper.
Prescott and I take the service elevator down to the basement garage in order to avoid the media outside. Jack's arrest and the fact he was apprehended in our apartment are now public knowledge. As I settle into the Audi, I wonder if there will be more paparazzi waiting at SIP like the day our engagement was announced.
We drive a while in silence until I remember to call first Ray and then my mom to reassure them that Christian and I are safe. Mercifully, both calls are short, and I hang up just as we arrive outside SIP. As I feared, there's a small crowd of reporters and photographers lying in wait. They turn as one, looking expectantly at the Audi.
"Are you sure you want to do this, Mrs. Grey?" Taylor asks. Part of me just wants to go home, but that means spending the day with Mr. Burning Rage. I hope that with a little time, he will gain some perspective. Jack is in police custody, so Fifty should be happy, but he's not. Part of me understands why; too much of this is out of his control including me, but I don't have time to think about this now.
"Take me around to the delivery entrance, please, Taylor."
"Yes, ma'am."
It's one o'clock and I've managed to immerse myself in work all morning.
There's a knock and Elizabeth pops her head around the door.
"Can I have a moment?" she asks brightly.
"Sure," I mutter, surprised at her unscheduled visit.
She enters and sits down, tossing her long black hair over her shoulder. "I just wanted to check you're okay. Roach asked me to pay you a visit," she adds hurriedly as her face reddens. "I mean with all that went on last night."
Jack Hyde's arrest is all over the newspapers, but no one seems to have made the connection yet with the fire at GEH.
"I'm fine," I answer, trying not to think too deeply about how I feel. Jack wanted to harm me. Well, that's not news. He's tried before. It's Christian I'm more concerned about.
I glance quickly at my e-mail. There's still nothing from him. I don't know if I were to send him an e-mail, whether I'd just be provoking Mr. Burning Rage further.
"Good," Elizabeth answers, and her smile actually touches her eyes for a change. "If there's anything I can do—anything you need—let me know."
"Will do."
Elizabeth stands. "I know how busy you are, Ana. I'll let you get back to it."
"Um . . . thanks."
That has to have been the briefest most pointless meeting in the Western Hemisphere today. Why did Roach send her here? Perhaps he's worried, given I'm his boss's wife. I shake off the dark thoughts and reach for my BlackBerry in the hope that there might be a message from Christian. As I do, my work e-mail pings.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Statement
Date: August 26, 2011 13:04
To: Anastasia Grey
Anastasia
Detective Clark will be visiting your office today at 3 pm to take your statement.
I have insisted that he should come to you, as I don't want you going to the police station.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
I gaze at his e-mail for a full five minutes, trying to think of a light and witty response to lift his mood. I draw a complete blank, and opt for brevity instead.
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: Statement
Date: August 26, 2011 13:12
To: Christian Grey
Okay.
A x
Anastasia Grey
Commissioning Editor, SIP
I stare at the screen for another five minutes, anxious for his response but there's nothing. Christian is not in the mood to play today.
I sit back. Can I blame him? My poor Fifty was probably frantic, back in the early hours of this morning. Then a thought occurs to me. He was in his tux when I woke this morning. What time did he decide to come back from New York? He normally leaves functions between ten and eleven. Last night at that hour, I was still at large with Kate.
Did Christian come home because I was out or because of the Jack incident?
If he left because I was out having a good time, he would have had no idea about
Jack, about the police, nothing—until he landed in Seattle. It's suddenly very important to me to find out. If Christian came back merely because I was out, then he was overreacting. My subconscious sucks her teeth, wearing her harpy face.
Okay, I'm glad he's back, so maybe it's irrelevant. But still—Christian must have had one hell of a shock when he landed. No wonder he's so confused today. His earlier words come back to me. "I am still f*cking mad at you, Anastasia. You're making me question my judgment."
I have to know—did he come back because of Cocktailgate or because of the f*cking lunatic?
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: Your Flight
Date: August 26, 2011 13:24
To: Christian Grey
What time did you decide to come back to Seattle yesterday?
Anastasia Grey
Commissioning Editor, SIP
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Your flight
Date: August 26, 2011 13:26
To: Anastasia Grey
Why?
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: Your Flight
Date: August 26, 2011 13:29
To: Christian Grey
Call it curiosity.
Anastasia Grey
Commissioning Editor, SIP
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Your flight
Date: August 26, 2011 13:32
To: Anastasia Grey
Curiosity killed the cat.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: Huh?
Date: August 26, 2011 13:35
To: Christian Grey
What is that oblique reference to? Another threat?
You know where I am going with this, don't you?
Did you decide to return because I went out for a drink with my friend after you asked me not to, or did you return because a madman was in your apartment?
Anastasia Grey
Commissioning Editor, SIP
I stare at my screen. There's no response. I glance at the clock on my computer. One forty-five and still no response.
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: Here's the thing . . .
Date: August 26, 2011 13:56
To: Christian Grey
I will take your silence as an admission that you did indeed return to Seattle because I CHANGED MY MIND. I am an adult female and went for a drink with my friend. I did not understand the security ramifications of CHANGING MY MIND because YOU NEVER TELL ME ANYTHING. I found out from Kate that security has, in fact, been stepped up for all the Greys, not just us. I think you generally overreact where my safety is concerned, and I understand why, but you're like the boy crying wolf.
I never have a clue about what is a real concern or merely something that is per-ceived as a concern by you. I had two of the security detail with me. I thought both Kate and I would be safe. Fact is, we were safer in that bar than at the apartment.
Had I been FULLY INFORMED of the situation, I would have taken a different course of action.
I understand your concerns are something to do with material that was on Jack's computer here—or so Kate believes. Do you know how annoying it is to find out my best friend knows more about what's going on with you than I do? And I am your WIFE. So are you going to tell me? Or will you continue to treat me like a child, guaranteeing that I continue to behave like one?
You are not the only one who is f*cking pissed. Okay?
Ana
Anastasia Grey
Commissioning Editor, SIP
I hit send. There—stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Grey. I take a deep breath. I have worked myself up into quite a rage. Here was I feeling sorry and guilty for behaving badly. Well, no longer.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Here's the thing . . .
Date: August 26, 2011 13:59
To: Anastasia Grey
As ever, Mrs. Grey, you are forthright and challenging in e-mail.
Perhaps we can discuss this when you get home to OUR apartment.
You should watch your language. I am still f*cking pissed, too.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
Watch my language! I scowl at my computer, realizing this is getting me nowhere. I don't respond, but pick up a manuscript recently received from a promising new author and begin to read.
My meeting with Detective Clark is uneventful. He is less growly than the night before, maybe because he's managed some sleep. Or maybe he just prefers working during the day.
"Thank you for your statement, Mrs. Grey."
"You're welcome, detective. Is Hyde in police custody yet?"
"Yes ma'am. He was released from hospital earlier this morning. With what he's charged with, he should be with us for a while." He smiles, his dark eyes crinkling in the corner.
"Good. This has been an anxious time for my husband and me."
"I spoke at length with Mr. Grey this morning. He's very relieved. Interesting man, your husband."
You have no idea.
"Yes, I think so." I offer him a polite smile, and he knows he's being dismissed.
"If you think of anything, you can call me. Here's my card." He wrestles a card out of his wallet and hands it to me.
"Thank you, detective. I'll do that."
"Good day to you, Mrs. Grey."
"Good day."
As he leaves, I wonder exactly what Hyde has been charged with. No doubt Christian won't tell me. I purse my lips.
We ride in silence to Escala. Sawyer is driving this time, Prescott at his side, and my heart grows heavier and heavier as we head back. I know Christian and I are going to have an almighty fight, and I don't know if I have the energy.
As I ride in the elevator from the garage with Prescott beside me, I try to mar-shal my thoughts. What do I want to say? I think I said it all in my e-mail. Perhaps he'll give me some answers. I hope so. I can't help my nerves. My heart is pounding, my mouth is dry, and my palms are sweaty. I don't want to fight. But sometimes he's so difficult, and I need to stand my ground.
The elevator doors slide open, revealing the foyer, and it's once more neat and tidy. The table is upright and a new vase is in place with a gorgeous array of pale pink and white peonies. I quickly check the paintings as we wander through—the Madonnas all look to be intact. The broken foyer door is fixed and operational once more, and Prescott kindly opens it for me. She's been so quiet today. I think I prefer her this way.
I drop my briefcase in the hall and head into the great room. I stop. Holy f*ck.
"Good evening, Mrs. Grey," Christian says softly. He's standing by the piano, dressed in a tight black T-shirt, and jeans . . . those jeans—the ones he wore in the playroom. Oh my. They are over washed pale-blue denim, snug, ripped at the knee and hot. He saunters over to me, his feet bare, the top button of the jeans undone, his smoldering eyes never leaving mine.
"Good to have you home. I've been waiting for you."
"Have you now?" I whisper. My mouth goes drier still, my heart pounding in my chest. Why's he dressed like this? What does it mean? Is he still sulking?
"I have." His voice is kitten soft, but he's smirking as he strolls closer to me.
Holy crap he looks hot—his jeans hanging that way from his hips. Oh no, I'm not going to be distracted by Mr. Sex-on-Legs. I try to gauge his mood as he stalks toward me. Angry? Playful? Lustful? Gah! It's impossible to tell.
"I like your jeans," I murmur. He grins a disarming wolfish grin that doesn't reach his eyes. Shit—he's still mad. He's wearing these to distract me. He halts in front of me, and I'm seared by his intensity. He gazes down, wide unreadable eyes burning into mine. I swallow.
"I understand you have issues, Mrs. Grey," he says silkily, and he pulls something from the back pocket of his jeans. I can't tear my gaze from his, but hear him unfold a piece of paper. He holds it up, and glancing briefly in its direction, I recognize my e-mail. My gaze returns to his, as his eyes blaze bright with anger.
"Yes, I have issues," I whisper, feeling breathless. I need distance if we're going to discuss this. But before I can step back, he leans down and runs his nose along mine. My eyes flutter to a close as I welcome his unexpected, gentle touch.
"So do I," he whispers against my skin, and I open my eyes at his words. He straightens and gazes intently at me once more.
"I think I'm familiar with your issues, Christian." My voice is wry, and he narrows his eyes, suppressing the amusement that sparks there momentarily. Are we going to fight? I take a precautionary step back. I must physically distance myself from him—from his smell, his look, his distracting body in those hot jeans.
He frowns as I move away.
"Why did you fly back from New York?" I whisper. Let's get this over and done with.
"You know why." His tone carries a warning ring.
"Because I went out with Kate?"
"Because you went back on your word, and you defied me, putting yourself at unnecessary risk."
"Went back on my word? Is that how you see it?" I gasp, ignoring the rest of his sentence.
"Yes."
Holy crap. Talk about overreaction! I start to roll my eyes but stop when he scowls at me. "Christian, I changed my mind," I explain slowly, patiently as if he's a child. "I'm a woman. We're renowned for it. That's what we do."
He blinks at me as if he doesn't comprehend this.
"If I had thought for one minute that you would cancel your business trip . . ."
Words fail me. I realize I don't know what to say. I am momentarily catapulted back to the argument over our vows. I never promised to obey you, Christian. But I hold my tongue, because deep down I'm glad he came back. In spite of his fury, I'm glad he's here in one piece, angry and smoldering in front of me.
"You changed your mind?" He can't hide his contemptuous disbelief.
"Yes."
"And you didn't think to call me?" He glares at me, incredulous, before continuing. "What's more, you left the security detail short here and put Ryan at risk."
Oh. I hadn't thought about that.
"I should have called, but I didn't want to worry you. If I had, I'm sure you would have forbidden me to go and I've missed Kate. I wanted to see her.
Besides, it kept me out of the way when Jack was here. Ryan shouldn't have let him in." This is so confusing. If Ryan hadn't, Jack would still be at large.
Christian's eyes gleam wildly, then shut, his face tightening as if in pain. Oh, no. He shakes his head, and before I know it he has folded me in his arms, pulling me hard against him.
"Oh Ana," he whispers as he tightens his hold on me so that I can barely breathe. "If something were to happen to you—" His voice is barely a whisper.
"It didn't," I manage to say.
"But it could have. I've died a thousand deaths today thinking about what might have happened. I was so mad, Ana. Mad at you. Mad at myself. Mad at everyone. I can't remember being this angry . . . except—" He stops again.
"Except?" I prompt.
"Once in your old apartment. When Leila was there."
Oh. I don't want to think about that.
"You were so cold this morning," I murmur. My voice cracks on the last word as I remember the hideous feeling of rejection in the shower. His hands move to the nape of my neck, loosening their grip on me, and I take a deep breath.
He pulls my head back.
"I don't know how to deal with this anger. I don't think I want to hurt you,"
he says, his eyes wide and wary. "This morning, I wanted to punish you, badly and—" He stops, lost for words I think, or too afraid to say them.
"You were worried you'd hurt me?" I finish his sentence for him, not believing that he'd hurt me for a minute, but relieved, too. A small vicious part of me feared it was because he didn't want me anymore.
"I didn't trust myself," he says quietly.
"Christian, I know you'd never hurt me. Not physically, anyway." I clasp his head between my hands.
"Do you?" he asks, and there's skepticism in his voice.
"Yes. I knew what you said was an empty, idle threat. I know you're not going to beat the shit out of me."
"I wanted to."
"No you didn't. You just thought you did."
"I don't know if that's true," he murmurs.
"Think about it," I urge, wrapping my arms around him once more and nuzzling his chest through the black T-shirt. "About how you felt when I left. You've told me often enough what that did to you. How it altered your view of the world, of me. I know what you've given up for me. Think about how you felt about the cuff marks on our honeymoon."
He stills, and I know he's processing this information. I tighten my arms around him, my hands on his back, feeling his taut toned muscles beneath his Tshirt. Gradually, he relaxes as the tension slowly ebbs away.
Is this what's been worrying him? That he'll hurt me? Why do I have more faith in him than he has in himself? I don't understand, surely we've moved on.
He's normally so strong, so in control, but without that, he's lost. Oh, Fifty, Fifty, Fifty—I'm sorry. He kisses my hair, I turn my face up to his, and his lips find mine, searching, taking, giving, begging—for what, I don't know. I just want to feel his mouth on mine, and I return his kiss passionately.
"You have such faith in me," he whispers after he breaks away.