“I figured. It’s Leila. She accosted my girlfriend, Anastasia Steele.”
“Was it at her office? Or at her apartment? When did it happen?”
“Yes. Outside SIP. Yesterday. Early evening.” I turn, and Ana, dressed only in my shirt, is standing by the kitchen counter, watching me. I study her as I continue my conversation, her expression a mixture of curious and haunted. She looks beautiful.
“What time, exactly?” Welch asks.
I repeat the question to Ana.
“About ten to six?” she says.
“Did you get that?” I ask Welch.
“No.”
“Ten to six,” I repeat.
“So she’s tracked Miss Steele to her work.”
“Find out how.”
“There are press photographs of the two of you together.”
“Yes.”
Ana tilts her head to one side and tosses her hair over her shoulder as she listens to my side of the conversation.
“Do you think we should be concerned for Miss Steele’s safety?” Welch inquires.
“I wouldn’t have said so, but then I wouldn’t have thought she could do this.”
“I think you should consider additional security for her, sir.”
“I don’t know how that will go down.” I look at Ana as she folds her arms, accentuating the outline of her breasts as they strain against the white cotton of my shirt.
“I’d like to increase your security, too, sir. Will you talk to Anastasia? Tell her of the danger she might be in?”
“Yes, I’ll talk to her.”
Ana bites her lip. I wish she’d stop. It’s distracting.
Welch continues, “I’ll brief Mr. Taylor and Mrs. Jones at a more reasonable hour.”
“Yes.”
“In the meantime, I’m going to need more personnel on the ground.”
“I know.” I sigh.
“We’ll start with the stores in the vicinity of SIP. See if anyone saw anything. This could be the lead we’ve been waiting for.”
“Follow it up and let me know. Just find her, Welch. She’s in trouble. Find her.” I hang up and look at Ana. Her tangled hair tumbles over her shoulders; her long legs are pale in the dim light from the hallway. I imagine them wrapped around me.
“Do you want some tea?” she asks.
“Actually, I’d like to go back to bed.” And forget all this crap about Leila.
“Well, I need some tea. Would you like to join me for a cup?” She moves to the stove, picks up the kettle, and begins to fill it with water.
I don’t want fucking tea. I want to bury myself in you and forget about Leila.
Ana gives me a pointed look and I realize she’s waiting for an answer about tea.
“Yes. Please.” Even to my own ears I sound surly.
What does Leila want with Ana?
And why the hell hasn’t Welch found her?
“What is it?” Ana asks a few minutes later. She’s holding a familiar-looking teacup.
Ana. Please. I don’t want you to worry about this.
“You’re not going to tell me?” she persists.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it shouldn’t concern you. I don’t want you tangled up in this.”
“It shouldn’t concern me, but it does. She found me and accosted me outside my office. How does she know about me? How does she know where I work? I think I have a right to know what’s going on.”
She has an answer for everything.
“Please?” she presses.
Oh, Ana. Ana. Ana. Why do you do this?
Her bright blue eyes beseech me.
Fuck. I can’t say no to that look.
“Okay.” You win. “I have no idea how she found you. Maybe the photograph of us in Portland, I don’t know.” With some reluctance I continue, “While I was with you in Georgia, Leila turned up at my apartment unannounced and made a scene in front of Gail.”
“Gail?”
“Mrs. Jones.”
“What do you mean made a scene?”
I shake my head.
“Tell me.” She puts her hands on her hips. “You’re keeping something back.”
“Ana, I—” Why is she so mad? I don’t want her mixed up in this. She doesn’t understand that Leila’s shame is my shame. Leila chose to attempt suicide in my apartment and I wasn’t there to help her; she cried out to me for a reason.
“Please?” Ana prompts again.
She won’t give up. I sigh with exasperation and tell her that Leila made a haphazard attempt at suicide.
“Oh no!”
“Gail got her to the hospital. But Leila discharged herself before I could get there. The shrink who saw her called it a typical cry for help. He didn’t believe her to be truly at risk—one step from suicidal ideation, he called it. But I’m not convinced. I’ve been trying to track her down since then to get her some help.”
“Did she say anything to Mrs. Jones?”
“Not much.”
“You can’t find her? What about her family?”
“They don’t know where she is. Neither does her husband.”
“Husband?” she exclaims.
“Yes.” That lying asshole. “She’s been married for about two years.”
“So she was with you while she was married?”
“No! Good God, no. She was with me nearly three years ago. Then she left and married this guy shortly afterward.” I told you, baby, I don’t share. I’ve only tangled with one married woman and that didn’t end well.
“So why is she trying to get your attention now?”
“I don’t know. All we’ve managed to find out is that she ran out on her husband about four months ago.”
Ana picks up a teaspoon and waves it as she talks. “Let me get this straight. She hasn’t been your submissive for three years?”
“About two and a half years.”
“And she wanted more.”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t?”
“You know this.”
“So she left you.”
“Yes.”
“So why is she coming to you now?”
“I don’t know.” She wanted more, but I couldn’t give her that. Maybe she’s seen me with you?
“But you suspect—”
“I suspect it has something to do with you.” But I could be wrong.
Now can we go back to bed?
Ana studies me, surveying my chest. But I ignore her scrutiny and ask the question that’s been nagging me since she told me she’d seen Leila. “Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?”
Ana has the grace to look guilty. “I forgot about her. You know, drinks after work, at the end of my first week. You turning up at the bar and your testosterone rush with Jack.” She gives me a shy smile. “And then when we were here. It slipped my mind. You have a habit of making me forget things.”
I’d like to forget this now. Let’s go back to bed.
“Testosterone rush?” I repeat, amused.
“Yes. The pissing contest.”
“I’ll show you a testosterone rush.” My voice is low.
“Wouldn’t you rather have a cup of tea?” She offers me a cup.
“No, Anastasia, I wouldn’t.” I want you. Now. “Forget about her. Come.” I hold out my hand. She sets the teacup back on the counter and puts her hand in mine.
Back in her bedroom, I slide my shirt over her head. “I like you wearing my clothes,” I whisper.
“I like wearing them. They smell of you.”
I grasp her head between my hands and kiss her.
I want to make her forget about Leila.
I want to forget about Leila.
I pick her up and walk her to the concrete wall.
“Wrap your legs around me, baby,” I order.