“Great.” We both exit my study. “I’ll brief them in ten,” I say to Taylor when we’re back in the living room. Ana is bending over the stove, retrieving a couple of plates.
“We’ll be ready,” Taylor says, and departs, leaving me alone with Anastasia.
“Lunch?” she offers.
“Please.” I sit down at one of the barstools where she’s laid our places for lunch.
“Problem?” she inquires, as curious as ever. I have yet to tell her about the additional security.
“No.”
She doesn’t push me for any answers as she busies herself plating our lunch of Spanish omelet with salad. I’m impressed she’s so capable and at ease in my kitchen. She sits beside me as I take a bite and the food melts in my mouth.
Hmm. Delicious.
“This is good. Would you like a glass of wine?”
“No thank you,” she replies, and gingerly starts eating her lunch.
At least she’s eating.
I forgo the wine, as I know I’ll be drinking this evening. Which reminds me that I have to call my mother. I wonder what she wants. She doesn’t know I split up with Ana—and now we’re back together. I should let her know that Ana is coming to the ball this evening.
Using the remote, I switch on some relaxing music.
“What’s this?” Ana asks.
“Canteloube, Songs of the Auvergne. This is called ‘Bailero.’?”
“It’s lovely. What language is it?”
“It’s in old French—Occitan, in fact.”
“You speak French; do you understand it?”
“Some words, yes. My mother had a mantra: ‘musical instrument, foreign language, martial art.’ Elliot speaks Spanish; Mia and I speak French. Elliot plays guitar, I play piano, and Mia the cello.”
“Wow. And the martial arts?”
“Elliot does judo. Mia put her foot down at age twelve and refused.” Ana knows I kickbox.
“I wish my mother had been that organized.”
“Dr. Grace is formidable when it comes to the accomplishments of her children.”
“She must be very proud of you. I would be,” Ana says warmly.
Oh, baby, you couldn’t be more wrong. Nothing is that simple. I’ve been a big disappointment to my folks: school expulsions, dropping out of college, no relationships that they knew of…If Grace only knew the truth about my lifestyle.
If you only knew the truth, Ana.
Don’t go there, Grey.
“Have you decided what you’ll wear this evening? Or do I need to come and pick something for you?”
“Um, not yet. Did you choose all those clothes?”
“No, Anastasia, I didn’t. I gave a list and your size to a personal shopper at Neiman Marcus. They should fit. Just so you know, I have ordered additional security for this evening and the next few days. With Leila unpredictable and unaccounted for somewhere on the streets of Seattle, I think it’s a wise precaution. I don’t want you going out unaccompanied. Okay?”
She looks a little stunned but agrees, surprising me by acquiescing without argument.
“Good. I’m going to brief them. I shouldn’t be long.”
“They’re here?”
“Yes.”
She looks puzzled. But she hasn’t objected to the additional security, so while I have the upper hand, I pick up my empty plate and place it in the sink and leave Ana to finish her meal in peace.
The security team is gathered in Taylor’s office, seated at his round table. After our introductions I sit down and run through the evening’s event.
BRIEFING FINISHED, I RETURN to my study to call my mother.
“Darling, how are you?” she enthuses into the phone.
“I’m well, Grace.”
“Are you coming this evening?”
“Of course. And Anastasia is coming, too.”
“She is?” She sounds surprised, but she recovers quickly. “That’s wonderful, sweetheart. I’ll make room at our table.” She sounds too exuberant. I can only imagine her delight.
“I’ll see you this evening, Mother.”
“I look forward to it, Christian. Good-bye.”
There’s an e-mail from Flynn.
* * *
From: Dr. John Flynn
Subject: Tonight
Date: June 11 2011 14:25
To: Christian Grey
I look forward to meeting Anastasia.
JF
I bet you do, John.
It seems everyone is thrilled I have a date tonight.
Everyone, including me.
ANA IS LYING ACROSS the bed in the submissive’s room, staring at her Mac. She’s engrossed in reading something on the Web.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She startles, and for some reason looks guilty. I lie down beside her and see that’s she’s on a website with a page titled “Multiple Personality Disorder: The Symptoms.”
I understand that I have many issues, but fortunately schizophrenia is not one of them. I can’t hide my amusement at her amateur psychological sleuthing. “On this site for a reason?”
“Research. Into a difficult personality.”
“A difficult personality?”
“My own pet project.”
“I’m a pet project now? A sideline. Science experiment, maybe. When I thought I was everything. Miss Steele, you wound me.”
“How do you know it’s you?”
“Wild guess,” I tease.
“It’s true that you are the only fucked-up, mercurial control freak that I know intimately.”
“I thought I was the only person you know intimately.”
“Yes. That, too,” she replies, and an embarrassed flush turns her cheeks a fetching pink.
“Have you reached any conclusions yet?”
She turns to scrutinize me, her expression warm. “I think you’re in need of intense therapy.”
I tuck her hair behind her ear, pleased that she’s kept it long and I can still do this. “I think I’m in need of you,” I counter. “Here.” I give her the lipstick.
“You want me to wear this?”
I laugh. “No, Anastasia, not unless you want to. Not sure it’s your color.”
Scarlet red is Elena’s color. Though I don’t tell Ana that. She’ll combust. And not in a good way.
I sit up on the bed, cross my legs, and pull my shirt over my head. This is either a brilliant brain wave—or a stupid one. We’ll see. “I like your road-map idea.”
She looks puzzled.
“The no-go areas,” I prompt.
“Oh. I was kidding,” she says.
“I’m not.”
“You want me to draw on you, with lipstick?” She’s bewildered.
“It washes off. Eventually.”
She considers my proposition and a smile tugs at her lips. “What about something more permanent, like a Sharpie?”
“I could get a tattoo.”
“No to the tattoo!” She laughs, but her eyes are wide in horror.
“Lipstick, then,” I retort. Her laugh is infectious and I beam at her.
She shuts the Mac and I hold out my hands. “Come. Sit on me.”
She peels her shoes off and crawls over to me. I lay back, keeping my knees upright. “Lean against my legs.”
She sits astride me, excited at this new challenge.
“You seem—enthusiastic for this,” I note with irony.
“I’m always eager for information, Mr. Grey, and it means you’ll relax, because I’ll know where the boundaries lie.”
I shake my head. I hope this is a good idea. “Open the lipstick,” I instruct.
For once, she does as she’s told.
“Give me your hand.”
She holds up her free hand.
“The one with the lipstick!”
“Are you rolling your eyes at me?” she chides.
“Yep.”
“That’s very rude, Mr. Grey. I know some people who get positively violent at eye rolling.”