(Fifty Shades #3) Fifty Shades Freed by E.L. James

Chapter Eleven

"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.

"I do." He strokes my face with the back of his knuckles and the tip of his thumb, gazing intently into my eyes. His anger has gone. My Fifty is back from wherever he's been. It's good to see him. I glance shyly up and smirk.

"Besides," I whisper, "you don't have the paperwork."

His mouth drops open in amused shock, and he clutches me to his chest again.

"You're right. I don't." He laughs.

We stand in the middle of the great room, locked in our embrace, just holding each other.

"Come to bed," he whispers, after heaven knows how long.

Oh my . . .

"Christian, we need to talk."

"Later," he urges softly.

"Christian, please. Talk to me."

He sighs. "About what?"

"You know. You keep me in the dark."

"I want to protect you."

"I'm not a child."

"I am fully aware of that, Mrs. Grey." He runs his hands down my body and cups my backside. Flexing his hips, he presses his growing erection into me.

"Christian!" I scold. "Talk to me."

He sighs once more with exasperation. "What do you want to know?" His voice is resigned as he releases me. I baulk— I didn't mean you had to let me go.

Taking my hand, he reaches down to pick up my e-mail from the floor.

"Lots of things," I mutter, as I let him lead me to the couch.

"Sit," he orders. Some things never change, I muse, doing as I'm told. Christian sits beside me, and leaning forward, puts his head in his hands.

Oh no. Is this too hard for him? Then he sits up, rakes both hands through his hair, and turns to me, at once expectant and reconciled to his fate.

"Ask me," he says simply.

Oh. Well, that was easier than I thought. "Why the additional security for your family?"

"Hyde was a threat to them."

"How do you know?"

"From his computer. It held personal details about me and the rest of my family. Especially Carrick."

"Carrick? Why him?"

"I don't know yet. Let's go to bed."

"Christian, tell me!"

"Tell you what?"

"You are so . . . exasperating."

"So are you." He glares at me.

"You didn't ramp up the security when you first found out there was information about your family on the computer. So what happened? Why now?"

Christian narrows his eyes at me.

"I didn't know he was going to attempt to burn down my building, or—" He stops. "We thought it was an unwelcome obsession, but you know"—he shrugs—"when you're in the public eye, people are interested. It was random stuff: news reports on me from when I was at Harvard—my rowing, my career.

Reports on Carrick—following his career, following my mom's career—and to some extent, Elliot and Mia.

How strange.

"You said or," I prompt.

"Or what?"

"You said, ‘attempt to burn down my building, or . . .' like you were going to say something else."

"Are you hungry?"

What? I frown at him, and my stomach rumbles.

"Did you eat today?" His voice is sterner and his eyes frost.

I'm betrayed by my flush.

"As I thought." His voice is clipped. "You know how I feel about you not eating. Come," he says. He stands and holds out his hand. "Let me feed you." And he shifts again . . . this time his voice full of sensual promise.

"Feed me?" I whisper as everything south of my navel liquefies. Hell. This is such a typically mercurial diversion from what we've been discussing. Is that it?

Is that all I'm getting out of him for now? Leading me over to the kitchen, Christian grabs a bar stool and hefts it around to the other side of the island.

"Sit," he says.

"Where's Mrs. Jones?" I ask, noticing her absence for the first time as I perch on the stool.

"I've given her and Taylor the night off."

Oh.

"Why?"

He gazes at me for a beat, and his arrogant amusement is back. "Because I can."

"So you're going to cook?" I give him an incredulous smirk.

"Oh, ye of little faith, Mrs. Grey. Close your eyes."

Wow. I thought we were going to have a full-on fight, and here we are, playing in the kitchen.

"Close them," he orders.

I roll them first, then oblige.

"Hmm. Not good enough," he mutters. I open one eye and see him take a plum-colored silk scarf out of the back pocket of his jeans. It matches my dress.

Holy cow. I look quizzically at him. When did he get that?

"Close," he orders again. "No peeking."

"You're going to blindfold me?" I mutter, shocked. All of a sudden I'm breathless.

"Yes."

"Christian—" He places a finger upon my lips, silencing me.

I want to talk.

"We'll talk later. I want you to eat now. You said you were hungry." He lightly kisses my lips. The silk of the scarf is soft against my eyelids as he ties it securely at the back of my head.

"Can you see?" he asks.

"No," I mutter, figuratively rolling my eyes. He chuckles softly.

"I can tell when you're rolling your eyes, . . . and you know how that makes me feel."

I purse my lips. "Can we just get this over and done with?" I snap.

"Such impatience, Mrs. Grey. So eager to talk." His tone is playful.

"Yes!"

"I must feed you first," he says and brushes his lips over my temple, calming me instantly.

Okay . . . have it your way. I resign myself to my fate and listen to his movements around the kitchen. The fridge door opens, and Christian places various dishes on the countertop behind me. He pads over to the microwave, pops something in, and turns it on. My curiosity is piqued. I hear the toaster lever drop, the turn of the control, and the quiet tick of the timer. Hmm—toast?

"Yes. I am eager to talk," I murmur, distracted. An assortment of exotic, spicy aromas fills the kitchen, and I shift in my chair.

"Be still, Anastasia," he murmurs, and he's close to me again. "I want you to behave . . . ," he whispers.

Oh my. My inner goddess freezes, not even blinking.

"And don't bite your lip." Gently he tugs my bottom lip free of my teeth, and I can't help my smile.

Next, I hear the sharp pop of a cork being drawn from a bottle and the gentle glug of wine being poured into a glass. Then a moment of silence followed by a quiet click and the soft hiss of white noise from the surround-sound speakers as they come to life. A loud twang of a guitar begins a song I don't know. Christian turns the volume down to background level. A man starts to sing, his voice deep, low, and sexy.

"A drink first, I think," Christian whispers, diverting me from the song.

"Head back." I tip my head back. "Further," he prompts.

I oblige, and his lips are on mine. Cool crisp wine flows into my mouth. I swallow reflexively. Oh my. Memories flood back of not so long ago—me trussed up on my bed in Vancouver before I graduated with a hot, angry Christian not appreciating my e-mail. Hmm . . . have times changed? Not much. Except now I recognize the wine, Christian's favorite—a Sancerre.

"Hmm," I murmur in appreciation.

"You like the wine?" he whispers, his breath warm on my cheek. I'm bathed in his proximity, his vitality, the heat radiating from his body, even though he doesn't touch me.

"Yes," I breathe.

"More?"

"I always want more, with you."

I almost hear his grin. It makes me grin, too. "Mrs. Grey, are you flirting with me?"

"Yes."

His wedding ring clinks against the glass as he takes another sip of wine.

Now that is a sexy sound. This time he pulls my head right back, cradling me. He kisses me once more, and greedily I swallow the wine he gives me. He smiles as he kisses me again.

"Hungry?"

"I think we've already established that, Mr. Grey."

The troubadour on the iPod is singing about wicked games. Hmm . . . How apt.

The microwave pings, and Christian releases me. I sit upright. The food smells spicy: garlic, mint, oregano, rosemary, and lamb, I think. The door to the microwave opens, and the appetizing smell grows stronger.

"Shit! Christ!" Christian curses, and a dish clatters onto the countertop.

Oh Fifty! "You okay?"

"Yes!" he snaps, his voice tight. A moment later, he's standing beside me once more.

"I just burned myself. Here." He eases his index finger into my mouth.

"Maybe you could suck it better."

"Oh." Clasping his hand, I draw his finger slowly from my mouth. "There, there," I soothe, and leaning forward I blow, cooling his finger, then kiss it gently twice. He stops breathing. I reinsert it into my mouth and suck gently. He inhales sharply, and the sound travels straight to my groin. He tastes as delicious as ever, and I realize that this is his game—the slow seduction of his wife. I thought he was mad, and now . . . ? This man, my husband, is so confusing. But this is how I like him. Playful. Fun. Sexy as hell. He's given me some answers, but I'm greedy.

I want more, but I want to play, too. After the anxiety and tension of today, and the nightmare of last night with Jack, this is a welcome diversion.

"What are you thinking?" Christian murmurs, stopping my thoughts in their tracks as he pulls his finger out of my mouth.

"How mercurial you are."

He stills beside me. "Fifty Shades, baby," he says eventually and plants a tender kiss at the corner of my mouth.

"My Fifty Shades," I whisper. Grabbing his T-shirt, I pull him back to me.

"Oh no you don't, Mrs. Grey. No touching . . . not yet." He takes my hand, pries it off his T-shirt, and kisses each finger in turn.

"Sit up," he commands.

I pout.

"I will spank you if you pout. Now open wide."

Oh shit. I open my mouth, and he pops in a forkful of spicy hot lamb covered in a cool, minty, yogurt sauce. Mmm. I chew.

"You like?"

"Yes."

He makes an appreciative noise, and I know he's eating and enjoying, too.

"More?"

I nod. He gives me another forkful, and I chew it enthusiastically. He puts the fork down and he tears . . . bread, I think.

"Open," he orders.

This time it's pita bread and hummus. I realize Mrs. Jones—or maybe even Christian—has been shopping at the delicatessen I discovered about five weeks ago only two blocks from Escala. I chew gratefully. Christian in a playful mood increases my appetite.

"More?" he asks.

I nod. "More of everything. Please. I'm starving."

I hear his delighted grin. Slowly and patiently he feeds me, occasionally kissing a morsel of food from the corner of my mouth or wiping it off with his fingers. Intermittently, he offers me a sip of wine in his unique way.

"Open wide, then bite," he murmurs. I follow his command. Hmm—one of my favorites, stuffed vine leaves. Even cold they are delicious, though I prefer them heated up, but I don't want to risk Christian burning himself again. He feeds it to me slowly, and when I've finished I lick his fingers clean.

"More?" he asks, his voice low and husky.

I shake my head. I'm full.

"Good," he whispers against my ear, "because it's time for my favorite course. You." He scoops me up in his arms, surprising me so much I squeal.

"Can I take the blindfold off?"

"No."

I almost pout, then remember his threat and think better of it.

"Playroom," he murmurs.

Oh—I don't know if that's a good idea.

"You up for the challenge?" he asks. And because he's used the word challenge, I can't say no.

"Bring it on," I murmur, desire and something that I don't want to name thrum through my body. He carries me through the door, then up the stairs to the second floor.

"I think you've lost weight," he mutters disapprovingly. I have? Good. I remember his comment when we arrived back from our honeymoon, and how much it smarted. Jeez—was that just a week ago?

Outside the playroom, he slides me down his body and sets me on my feet, but keeps his arm wrapped around my waist. Briskly he unlocks the door.

It always smells the same: polished wood and citrus. It's actually become a comforting smell. Releasing me, Christian turns me around until I'm facing away from him. He undoes the scarf, and I blink in the soft light. Gently, he pulls the hairpins from my updo, and my braid falls free. He grasps it and tugs gently so I have to step back against him.

"I have a plan," he whispers in my ear, sending delicious shivers down my spine.

"I thought you might," I answer. He kisses me beneath my ear.

"Oh, Mrs. Grey, I do." His tone is soft, mesmerizing. He tugs my braid to the side and plants a trail of soft kisses down my throat.

"First we have to get you naked." His voice hums low in his throat and resonates through my body. I want this—whatever he has planned. I want to connect the way we know how. He turns me around to face him. I glance down at his jeans, the top button still undone, and I can't help myself. I brush my index finger around the waistband, avoiding his T-shirt, feeling the hairs of his happy trail tickle my knuckle. He inhales sharply, and I look up to meet his eyes. I stop at the unfastened button. His eyes darken to a deeper gray . . . oh my.

"You should keep these on," I whisper.

"I fully intend to, Anastasia."

And he moves, grabbing me with one hand to the back of my neck and the other around my backside. He pulls me against him, then his mouth is on mine, and he's kissing me like his life depends on it.

Whoa!

He walks me backward, our tongues entwined, until I feel the wooden cross behind me. He leans into me, the contours of his body pressing into mine.

"Let's get rid of this dress," he says, peeling my dress up my thighs, my hips, my belly . . . deliciously slowly, the material skimming over my skin, skimming over my breasts.

"Lean forward," he says.

I comply, and he pulls my dress over my head and discards it on the floor, leaving me in my sandals, panties, and bra. His eyes blaze as he grasps both my hands and raises them over my head. He blinks once and tilts his head to one side, and I know he's asking for my permission. What is he going to do to me? I swallow, then nod, and a trace of an admiring, almost proud, smile touches his lips. He clips my wrists into the leather cuffs on the bar above and produces the scarf once more.

"Think you've seen enough," he murmurs. He wraps it around my head, blindfolding me again, and I feel a frisson run through me as all my other senses heighten; the sound of his soft breathing, my own excited response, the blood pulsing in my ears, Christian's scent mixed with the citrus and polish in the room—all are bought into sharper focus because I can't see. His nose touches mine.

"I'm going to drive you wild," he whispers. His hands grasp my hips, and he moves down, removing my panties as his hands glide down my legs. Drive me wild . . . wow.

"Lift your feet, one at a time." I oblige and he removes first my panties, then each sandal in turn. Gently grasping my ankle, he tugs my leg gently to the right.

"Step," he says. He cuffs my right ankle to the cross then proceeds to do the same with my left. I am helpless, spread-eagled on the cross. Standing, Christian steps toward me, and my body is bathed in his warmth once more though he doesn't touch me. After a moment he grasps my chin, tilts my head up, and kisses me chastely.

"Some music and toys, I think. You look beautiful like this, Mrs. Grey. I may take a moment to admire the view." His voice is soft. Everything clenches deep inside.

After a moment, maybe two, I hear him pad quietly to the museum chest and open one of the drawers. The butt drawer? I have no idea. He takes something out and places it on the top, followed by something else. The speakers spring to life, and after a moment the strains of a single piano playing a soft, lilting melody fill the room. It's familiar—Bach, I think—but I don't know what piece it is. Something about the music makes me apprehensive. Perhaps because the music is too cool, too detached. I frown, trying to grasp why it unsettles me, but Christian grasps my chin, startling me, and tugs gently so that I release my bottom lip. I smile, trying to reassure myself. Why do feel uneasy? Is it the music?

Christian runs his hand from my chin, along my throat, and down my chest to my breast. Using his thumb he pulls on the cup, freeing my breast from the restraint of my bra. He makes a low, appreciative humming noise in his throat and kisses my neck. His lips follow the path of his fingers to my breast, kissing and sucking all the way. His fingers move to my left breast, releasing it from my bra. I moan as he skates his thumb across my left nipple, and his lips close around my right, tugging and teasing gently until both nipples are long and hard.

"Ah."

He doesn't stop. With exquisite care, he slowly increases the intensity on each. I pull fruitlessly against my restraints as sharp pleasure spikes from my nipples to my groin. I try to squirm but I can hardly move, and it makes the torture all the more intense.

"Christian," I plead.

"I know," he murmurs his voice hoarse. "This is what you make me feel."

What? I groan, and he begins again, subjecting my nipples to his sweet agonizing touch over and over—taking me closer.

"Please," I mewl.

He makes a low primal sound in his throat, then stands, leaving me bereft, breathless, and squirming against my restraints. He runs his hands down my sides, one pausing on my hip while the other travels down my belly.

"Let's see how you're doing," he croons softly. Gently, he cups my sex, brushing his thumb across my clitoris and making me cry out. Slowly, he inserts one, then two fingers inside me. I groan and thrust my hips forward, eager to meet his fingers and the palm of his hand.

"Oh, Anastasia, you're so ready," he says.

He circles his fingers inside me, around and around, while his thumb strokes my clitoris, back and forth, once more. It's the only point on my body where he's touching me, and all the tension, all the anxiety of the day, is concentrated on this one part of my anatomy.

Holy shit . . . it's intense . . . and strange . . . the music . . . I begin to build . . .

Christian shifts, his hand still moving against and in me, and I hear a low buzzing noise.

"What?" I gasp.

"Hush," he soothes, and his lips are on mine, effectively silencing me. I welcome the warmer, more intimate contact, kissing him voraciously. He breaks the contact and the buzzing noise gets nearer.

"This is a wand, baby. It vibrates."

He holds it against my chest, and it feels like a large ball-like object vibrating against me. I shiver as it moves across my skin, down between my breasts, across to first one, then the other nipple, and I'm awash with sensation, tingling everywhere, synapses firing as dark, dark need pools at the base of my belly.

"Ah," I groan while Christian's fingers continue to move inside me . I'm close . . . all this stimulation . . . Tilting my head back, I moan loudly and Christian stills his fingers. All sensation stops.

"No! Christian," I plead, trying to thrust my hips forward for some friction.

"Still, baby," he says while my impending orgasm melts away. He leans forward once more and kisses me.

"Frustrating, isn't it?" he murmurs.

Oh no! Suddenly I understand his game.

"Christian, please."

"Hush," he says and kisses me. And he starts to move again—wand, fingers, thumb—a lethal combination of sensual torture. He shifts so his body brushes against mine. He's still dressed, and the soft denim of his jeans brushes against my leg, his erection at my hip. So tantalizingly close. He brings me to the brink again, my body singing with need, and stops.

"No," I mewl loudly.

He plants soft wet kisses on my shoulder as he withdraws his fingers from me, and moves the wand down. It oscillates over my stomach, my belly, onto my sex, against my clitoris. Fuck, it's intense.

"Ah!" I cry out, pulling hard on the restraints.

My body is so sensitized I feel I am going to explode, and just as I am, Christian stops again.

"Christian!" I cry out.

"Frustrating, yes?" he murmurs against my throat. "Just like you. Promising one thing and then . . ." His voice trails off.

"Christian, please!" I beg.

He pushes the wand against me again and again, stopping just at the vital moment each time. Ah!

"Each time I stop, it feels more intense when I start again. Right?"

"Please," I whimper. My nerve endings are screaming for release.

The buzzing stops and Christian kisses me. He runs his nose down mine.

"You are the most frustrating woman I have ever met."

No, No, No.

"Christian, I never promised to obey you. Please, please—"

He moves in front of me, grabs my behind and pushes his hips against me, making me gasp—his groin rubbing into mine, the buttons of his jeans pressing into me, barely containing his erection. With one hand he pulls off the blindfold and grasps my chin, and I blink up into his scorching eyes.

"You drive me crazy," he whispers, flexing his hips against me once, twice, three times more, causing my body to spark—ready to burn. And again he denies me. I want him so badly. I need him so badly. I close my eyes and mutter a prayer. I can't help but feel I'm being punished. I'm helpless and he's ruthless. Tears spring to my eyes. I don't know how far he's going to take this.

"Please," I whisper once more.

But he gazes down at me, implacable. He's just going to continue. For how long? Can I play this game? No. No. No—I can't do this. I know he's not going to stop. He's going to continue to torture me. His hand travels down my body once more. No . . . And the dam bursts—all the apprehension, the anxiety, and the fear from the last couple of days overwhelming me anew as tears spring to my eyes. I turn away from him. This is not love. It's revenge.

"Red," I whimper. "Red. Red." The tears course down my face.

He stills. "No!" He gasps, stunned. "Jesus Christ, no."

He moves quickly, unclipping my hands, clasping me around my waist and leaning down to unclip my ankles, while I put my head in my hands and weep.

"No, no, no. Ana, please. No."

Picking me up, he moves to the bed, sitting down and cradling me in his lap while I sob inconsolably. I'm overwhelmed . . . my body wound up to breaking point, my mind a blank, and my emotions scattered to the wind. He reaches behind him, drags the satin sheet off the four-poster bed, and drapes it around me.

The cool sheets feel alien and unwelcome against my sensitized skin. He wraps his arms around me, hugging me close, rocking me gently backward and forward.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Christian murmurs, his voice raw. He kisses my hair over and over again. "Ana, forgive me, please."

Turning my face into his neck, I continue to cry, and it's a cathartic release.

So much has happened over the last few days—fires in computer rooms, car chases, careers planned out for me, slutty architects, armed lunatics in the apartment, arguments, his anger—and Christian has been away. I hate Christian going away . . . I use the corner of the sheet to wipe my nose and gradually become aware that the clinical tones of Bach are still echoing around the room.

"Please switch the music off." I sniff.

"Yes, of course." Christian shifts, not letting me go, and pulls the remote out of his back pocket. He presses a button and the piano music ceases, to be replaced by my shuddering breaths. "Better?" he asks.

I nod, my sobs easing. Christian wipes my tears away gently with his thumb.

"Not a fan of Bach's Goldberg Variations?" he asks.

"Not that piece."

He gazes down at me, trying and failing to hide the shame in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

"Why did you do that?" My voice is barely audible as I try to process my scrambled thoughts and feelings.

He shakes his head sadly and closes his eyes. "I got lost in the moment," he says unconvincingly.

I frown at him, and he sighs. "Ana, orgasm denial is a standard tool in—You never—" He stops. I shift in his lap, and he winces.

Oh. I flush. "Sorry," I mutter.

He rolls his eyes, then leans back suddenly, taking me with him, so that we're both lying on the bed, me in his arms. My bra is uncomfortable, and I adjust it.

"Need a hand?" he asks quietly.

I shake my head. I don't want him to touch my breasts. He shifts so he's looking down at me, and tentatively raising his hand, he strokes his fingers gently down my face. Tears pool in my eyes again. How can he be so callous one minute and so tender the next?

"Please don't cry," he whispers.

I'm dazed and confused by this man. My anger has deserted me in my hour of need . . . I feel numb. I want to curl up in a ball and withdraw. I blink, trying to hold back my tears as I gaze into his harrowed eyes. I take a shuddering breath, my eyes not leaving his. What am I going to do with this controlling man? Learn to be controlled? I don't think so . . .

"I never what?" I ask

"Do as you're told. You changed your mind; you didn't tell me where you were. Ana, I was in New York, powerless and livid. If I'd been in Seattle I'd have brought you home."

"So you are punishing me?"

He swallows, then closes his eyes. He doesn't have to answer, and I know that punishing me was his exact intention.

"You have to stop doing this," I murmur.

His brow furrows.

"For a start, you only end up feeling shittier about yourself."

He snorts. "That's true," he mutters. "I don't like to see you like this."

"And I don't like feeling like this. You said on the Fair Lady that you hadn't married a submissive."

"I know. I know." His voice is soft and raw.

"Well stop treating me like one. I'm sorry I didn't call you. I won't be so selfish again. I know you worry about me."

He gazes at me, scrutinizing me closely, his eyes bleak and anxious. "Okay.

Good," he says eventually. He leans down, but pauses before his lips touch mine, silently asking if it's allowed. I raise my face to his, and he kisses me tenderly.

"Your lips are always so soft when you've been crying," he murmurs.

"I never promised to obey you, Christian," I whisper.

"I know."

"Deal with it, please. For both our sakes. And I will try and be more considerate of your . . . controlling tendencies."

He looks lost and vulnerable, completely at sea.

"I'll try," he murmurs, his voice burning with sincerity.

I sigh, a long shuddering sigh. "Please do. Besides, if I had been here . . ."

"I know," he says and blanches. Lying back, he puts his free arm over his face. I curl around him and lay my head on his chest. We both lie silent for a few moments. His hand moves to the end of my braid. He pulls the tie from it, freeing my hair, and gently, rhythmically combs his fingers through it. This is what this is really about—his fear . . . his irrational fear for my safety. An image of Jack Hyde slumped on the floor in my apartment with a Glock comes to mind . . . well, maybe not so irrational, which reminds me . . .

"What did you mean earlier, when you said or?" I ask.

"Or?"

"Something about Jack."

He peers down at me. "You don't give up, do you?"

I rest my chin on his sternum, enjoying the soothing caress of his fingers in my hair.

"Give up? Never. Tell me. I don't like being kept in the dark. You seem to have some overblown idea that I need protecting. You don't even know how to shoot—I do. Do you think I can't handle whatever it is you won't tell me, Christian? I've had your stalker ex-sub pull a gun on me, your pedophile ex-lover harass me—and don't look at me like that," I snap when he scowls at me. "Your mother feels the same way about her."

"You talked to my mother about Elena?" Christian's voice raises a few octaves.

"Yes, Grace and I talked about her."

He gapes at me.

"She's very upset about it. Blames herself."

"I can't believe you spoke to my mother. Shit!" He lies down and puts his arm over his face again.

"I didn't go into any specifics."

"I should hope not. Grace doesn't need all the gory details. Christ, Ana. My dad, too?"

"No!" I shake my head vehemently. I don't have that kind of relationship with Carrick. His comments about the prenup still sting. "Anyway, you're trying to distract me—again. Jack. What about him?"

Christian lifts his arm briefly and gazes at me, his expression unreadable.

Sighing, he puts his arm back over his face.

"Hyde is implicated in Charlie Tango's sabotage. The investigators found a partial print—just partial, so they couldn't make a match. But then you recognized Hyde in the server room. He has convictions as a minor in Detroit, and the prints matched his."

My mind reels as I try to absorb this information. Jack brought down Charlie Tango? But Christian is on a roll. "This morning, a cargo van was found in the garage here. Hyde was the driver. Yesterday, he delivered some shit to that new guy who's moved in. The guy we met in the elevator."

"I don't remember his name."

"Me neither." Christian says. "But that's how Hyde managed to get into the building legitimately. He was working for a delivery company—"

"And? What's so important about the van?"

Christian says nothing.

"Christian, tell me."

"The cops found . . . things in the van." He stops again and tightens his hold around me.

"What things?"

He's quiet for several moments, and I open my mouth to prompt him again, but he speaks. "A mattress, enough horse tranquilizer to take down a dozen horses, and a note." His voice has softened to barely a whisper while horror and revulsion roll off him.

Holy fuck.

"Note?" My voice mirrors his.

"Addressed to me."

"What did it say?"

Christian shakes his head, indicating he doesn't know or that he won't divulge its contents.

Oh.

"Hyde came here last night with the intention of kidnapping you." Christian freezes, his face taut with tension. As he says those words, I recall the duct tape, and a shudder runs through me, though deep down this is not news to me.

"Shit," I mutter.

"Quite," Christian says tightly.

I try to remember Jack in the office. Was he always insane? How did he think he could get away with this? I mean he was pretty creepy, but this unhinged?

"I don't understand why," I murmur. "It doesn't make sense to me."

"I know. The police are digging further, and so is Welch. But we think Detroit is the connection."

"Detroit?" I gaze at him, confused.

"Yeah. There's something there."

"I still don't understand."

Christian lifts his face and gazes at me, his expression unreadable. "Ana, I was born in Detroit."

Chapter Twelve

"I thought you were born here in Seattle," I murmur. My mind races. What does this have to do with Jack? Christian raises the arm covering his face, reaches behind him, and grabs one of the pillows. Placing it under his head, he settles back and gazes at me with a wary expression. After a moment he shakes his head.

"No. Elliot and I were both adopted in Detroit. We moved here shortly after my adoption. Grace wanted to be on the west coast, away from the urban sprawl, and she got a job at Northwest Hospital. I have very little memory of that time.

Mia was adopted here."

"So Jack is from Detroit?"

"Yes."

Oh . . . "How do you know?"

"I ran a background check when you went to work for him."

Of course he did. "Do you have a manila file on him, too?" I smirk.

Christian's mouth twists as he hides his amusement. "I think it's pale blue."

His fingers continue to run through my hair. It's soothing.

"What does it say in his file?"

Christian blinks. Reaching down he strokes my cheek. "You really want to know?"

"Is it that bad?"

He shrugs. "I've known worse," he whispers.

No! Is he referring to himself? And the image I have of Christian as a small, dirty, fearful, lost boy comes to mind. I curl around him, holding him tighter, pulling the sheet over him, and I lay my cheek against his chest.

"What?" he asks, puzzled by my reaction.

"Nothing," I murmur.

"No, no. This works both ways, Ana. What is it?"

I glance up assessing his apprehensive expression. Resting my cheek upon his chest once more, I decide to tell him. "Sometimes I picture you as a child . . .

before you came to live with the Greys."

Christian stiffens. "I wasn't talking about me. I don't want your pity, Anastasia. That part of my life is done. Gone."

"It's not pity," I whisper, appalled. "It's sympathy and sorrow—sorrow that anyone could do that to a child." I take a deep steadying breath as my stomach twists and tears prick my eyes anew. "That part of your life is not done, Christian—how can you say that? You live every day with your past. You told me yourself—Fifty Shades, remember?" My voice is barely audible.

Christian snorts and runs his free hand through his hair, though he remains silent and tense beneath me.

"I know it's why you feel the need to control me. Keep me safe."

"And yet you choose to defy me," he murmurs baffled, his hand stilling in my hair.

I frown. Holy cow! Do I do that deliberately? My subconscious removes her half-moon glasses and chews the end, pursing her lips and nodding. I ignore her.

This is confusing—I'm his wife, not his submissive, not some company he's acquired. I'm not the crack whore who was his mother . . . Fuck. The thought is sickening. Dr. Flynn's words come back to me:

"Just keep doing what you're doing. Christian is head over heels . . . It's a delight to see."

That's it. I'm just doing what I've always done. Isn't that what Christian found attractive in the first place?

Oh, this man is so confusing.

"Dr. Flynn said I should give you the benefit of the doubt. I think I do—I'm not sure. Perhaps it's my way of bringing you into the here and now—away from your past," I whisper. "I don't know. I just can't seem to get a handle on how far you'll overreact."

He's silent for a moment. "Fucking Flynn," he mutters to himself.

"He said I should continue to behave the way I've always behaved with you."

"Did he now?" Christian says dryly.

Okay. Here goes nothing. "Christian, I know you loved your mom, and you couldn't save her. It wasn't your job to do that. But I'm not her."

He freezes again. "Don't," he whispers.

"No, listen. Please." I raise my head to stare into gray eyes that are paralyzed with fear. He's holding his breath. Oh, Christian . . . My heart constricts. "I'm not her. I'm much stronger than she was. I have you, and you're so much stronger now, and I know you love me. I love you, too," I whisper.

His brow creases as if my words were not what he expected. "Do you still love me?" he asks.

"Of course I do. Christian, I will always love you. No matter what you do to me." Is this the reassurance he wants?

He exhales and closes his eyes, placing his arm over his face again, but hugging me closer, too.

"Don't hide from me." Reaching up, I grasp his hand and pull his arm away from his face. "You've spent your life hiding. Please don't, not from me."

He looks at me with incredulity and frowns. "Hiding?"

"Yes."

He shifts suddenly, rolling over onto his side and moving me so that I am lying beside him on the bed. He reaches up, smoothes my hair off my face and tucks it behind my ear.

"You asked me earlier today if I hated you. I didn't understand why, and now—" He stops, staring down at me as if I'm a complete conundrum.

"You still think I hate you?" Now my voice is incredulous.

"No." He shakes his head. "Not now." He looks relieved. "But I need to know . . . why did you safe word, Ana?"

I blanch. What can I tell him? That he frightened me. That I didn't know if he'd stop. That I begged him—and he didn't stop. That I didn't want things to es-calate . . . like—like that one time in here. I shudder as I recall him whipping me with his belt.

I swallow. "Because . . . because you were so angry and distant and . . . cold.

I didn't know how far you'd go."

His expression is unreadable.

"Were you going to let me come?" My voice is barely a whisper, and I feel a blush steal over my cheeks, but I hold his gaze.

"No," he says eventually.

Holy crap. "That's . . . harsh."

His knuckle gently grazes my cheek. "But effective," he murmurs. He gazes down at me as if he's trying to see into my soul, his eyes darkening. After an eternity, he murmurs, "I'm glad you did."

"Really?" I don't understand.

His lips twist in a sad smile. "Yes. I don't want to hurt you. I got carried away." He reaches down and kisses me. "Lost in the moment." He kisses me again. "Happens a lot with you."

Oh? And for some bizarre reason the thought pleases me . . . I grin. Why does that make me happy? He grins, too.

"I don't know why you're grinning, Mrs. Grey."

"Me neither."

He wraps himself around me and places his head on my chest. We are a tangle of naked and denim-clad limbs, and satin red sheets. I stroke his back with one hand and run the fingers of my other hand through his hair. He sighs and relaxes in my arms.

"It means I can trust you . . . to stop me. I never want to hurt you," he murmurs. "I need—" He halts.

"You need what?"

"I need control, Ana. Like I need you. It's the only way I can function. I can't let go of it. I can't. I've tried . . . And yet, with you . . ." He shakes his head in exasperation.

I swallow. This is the heart of our dilemma—his need for control and his need for me. I refuse to believe these are mutually exclusive.

"I need you, too," I whisper, hugging him tighter. "I'll try, Christian. I'll try to be more considerate."

"I want you to need me," he murmurs.

Holy cow!

"I do!" My voice is impassioned. I need him so much. I love him so much.

"I want to look after you."

"You do. All the time. I missed you so much while you were away."

"You did?" He sounds so surprised.

"Yes, of course. I hate you going away."

I sense his smile. "You could have come with me."

"Christian, please. Let's not rehash that argument. I want to work."

He sighs as I work my fingers gently through his hair.

"I love you, Ana."

"I love you, too, Christian. I will always love you."

We both lie still in the calm, quiet after our storm. Listening to the steady beat of his heart, I drift exhausted into sleep.

I wake with a start, disorientated. Where am I? The playroom. The lights are still on, softly illuminating the bloodred walls. Christian moans again, and I realize this is what woke me.

"No," he groans. He's sprawled out beside me, his head back, his eyes screwed shut, his face contorted in anguish.

Holy shit. He's having a nightmare.

"No!" he cries out again.

"Christian, wake up." I struggle to sit up, kicking off the sheet. Kneeling beside him, I grab his shoulders and shake him as tears spring to my eyes.

"Christian, please. Wake up!"

His eyes spring open, gray and wild, his pupils enlarged with fear. He stares vacantly up at me.

"Christian, you're having a nightmare. You're home. You're safe."

He blinks, looks around frantically, and frowns as he takes in our surroundings. Then his eyes are back on mine. "Ana," he breathes, and with no preamble whatsoever he grabs my face with both hands, pulls me down onto his chest, and kisses me. Hard. His tongue invades my mouth, and he tastes of desperation and need. Barely giving me a chance to breathe, he rolls over, his lips locked to mine so that he's pressing me into the hard mattress of the four-poster. One of his hands clasps my jaw, the other spreads out on top of my head, keeping me still as his knee parts my legs and he nestles, still clothed in his jeans, between my thighs.

"Ana," he gasps as if he can't believe I'm there with him. He gazes down at me for a split second, allowing me a moment to breathe. Then his lips are on mine again, plundering my mouth, taking all I have to give. He groans loudly, flexing his hips into me. His erection sheathed in denim pushes into my soft flesh. Oh . . .

I moan, and all the pent-up sexual tension of earlier erupts, resurfacing with a vengeance, flushing my system with desire and need. Driven by his demons, he urgently kisses my face, my eyes, my cheeks, along my jaw.

"I'm here," I whisper, trying to calm him, our heated, panting breath mingling. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, as I grind my pelvis against his in welcome.

"Oh, Ana," he pants, his voice rough and low. "I need you."

"Me, too," I whisper urgently, my body desperate for his touch. I want him. I want him now. I want to heal him. I want to heal me . . . I need this. His hand reaches down and tugs on the button of his fly, fumbling momentarily, then freeing his erection.

Holy shit. I was asleep less than a minute ago.

He shifts, staring down at me for a split second, suspended above me.

"Yes. Please," I breathe, my voice hoarse and needy.

And in one swift move he buries himself inside me.

"Ah!" I cry out, not from any pain, but from surprise at his alacrity.

He groans, and his lips find mine again as he pushes into me, over and over, his tongue possessing me, too. He moves frantically, compelled by his fear, his lust, his desire, his—love? I don't know, but I meet him thrust for thrust, welcom-ing him.

"Ana," he growls almost inarticulately, and he comes powerfully, pouring himself into me, his face strained, his body rigid, before he collapses with his full weight onto me, panting, and he leaves me hanging . . . again.

Holy shit. This is not my night. My inner goddess is preparing to disembowel herself. I hold him, drawing in a lungful of air and practically writhing with need beneath him. He eases out of me and holds me for minutes . . . many minutes. Finally he shakes his head and leans up on his elbows, taking some of his weight. He gazes down at me as if seeing me for the first time.

"Oh, Ana. Sweet Jesus." He bends and kisses me tenderly.

"You okay?" I breathe, caressing his lovely face. He nods, but he looks shaken and most definitely stirred. My own lost boy. He frowns and stares intently into my eyes as if finally registering where he is.

"You?" he asks, concern in his voice.

"Um . . ." I wriggle beneath him, and after a moment he smiles, a slow carnal smile.

"Mrs. Grey, you have needs," he murmurs. He kisses me swiftly, then scoots off the bed.

Kneeling on the floor at the end of the bed, he reaches up, grabs me just above the knees and pulls me toward him so my behind is on the edge of the bed.

"Sit up," he murmurs. I struggle into a sitting position, my hair falling like a veil around me, down to my breasts. His gray gaze holds mine as he gently pushes my legs apart as far as they'll go. I lean back on my hands—knowing full well what he's going to do. But . . . he's just . . . um . . .

"You are so fucking beautiful, Ana," he breathes, and I watch his copper-haired head dip and plant a trail of kisses up my right thigh, heading north. My whole body clenches in anticipation. He glances up at me, his eyes darkening through long lashes.

"Watch," he rasps then his mouth is on me.

Oh my. I cry out as the world is concentrated at the apex of my thighs, and it's so erotic— Fuck—watching him. Watching his tongue against what feels like the most sensitive part of my body. And he shows no mercy, teasing and taunting, worshipping me. My body tenses and my arms start to tremble from the strain of staying upright.

"No . . . ah," I murmur. Gently, he eases one long finger inside me, and I can bear it no more, collapsing back onto the bed, relishing this mouth and fingers on and in me. Slowly and gently, he massages that sweet, sweet spot deep inside me.

And that's it—I'm gone. I explode around him, crying out an incoherent rendition of his name as my intense orgasm arches my back off the bed. I think I see stars it's such a visceral primal feeling . . . Vaguely I'm aware that he's nuzzling my belly, giving me soft, sweet kisses. Reaching down, I caress his hair.

"I'm not finished with you yet," he murmurs. And before I've fully come back to Seattle, Planet Earth, he's reaching for me, grasping my hips and pulling me off the bed to where's he's kneeling, and into his waiting lap and onto his waiting erection.

I gasp as he fills me. Holy cow . . .

"Oh, baby," he breathes as he wraps his arms around me and stills, cradling my head and kissing my face. He flexes his hips, and pleasure spikes hot and hard from deep within me. He reaches for my behind and lifts me, rocking his groin upward.

"Ah," I moan, and his lips are on mine again as he slowly, oh so slowly, lifts and rocks . . . lifts and rocks. I throw my arms around his neck, surrendering to his gentle rhythm and to wherever he'll take me. I flex my thighs, riding him . . . he feels so good. Leaning backward, I tilt my head back, my mouth open wide in a silent expression of my pleasure, reveling in his sweet lovemaking.

"Ana," he breathes, and he leans down, kissing my throat. Holding me tight, slowly easing in and out, pushing me . . . higher and higher . . . so exquisitely timed—a fluid carnal force. Blissful pleasure radiates outward from deep, deep inside me as he holds me so intimately.

"I love you, Ana," he whispers close to my ear, his voice low and harsh, and he lifts me again—up, down, up, down. I curl my hands back around his neck into his hair.

"I love you, too, Christian." Opening my eyes, I find he's gazing at me, and all I see is his love, shining bright and bold in the soft glow of the playroom light, his nightmare seemingly forgotten. And as I feel my body build toward my release, I realize this is what I wanted—this connection, this demonstration of our love.

"Come for me, baby," he whispers, his voice low. I screw my eyes shut as my body tightens at the low sound of his voice, and I come loudly, spiraling into an intense climax. He stills, his forehead against mine, as he softly whispers my name, wraps his arms around me, and finds his own release.

He lifts me gently and lays me on the bed. I lie in his arms, wrung out and finally sated. He nuzzles my neck.

"Better now?" he whispers.

"Hmm."

"Shall we go to bed, or do you want to sleep here?"

"Hmm."

"Mrs. Grey, talk to me." He sounds amused.

"Hmm."

"Is that the best you can do?"

"Hmm."

"Come. Let me put you to bed. I don't like sleeping here."

Reluctantly, I shift and turn to face him. "Wait," I whisper. He blinks at me, looking all wide-eyed and innocent, and at the same time thoroughly fucked and pleased with himself.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

He nods, smiling smugly like an adolescent boy. "I am now."

"Oh, Christian," I scold and gently stroke his lovely face. "I was talking about your nightmare."

His expression freezes momentarily, then he closes his eyes and tightens his arms around me, burying his face in my neck.

"Don't," he whispers, his voice hoarse and raw. My heart lurches and twists once more in my chest, and I clutch him tightly, running my hands down his back and through his hair.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, alarmed by his reaction. Holy fuck—how can I keep up with these mood swings? What the hell was his nightmare about? I don't want to cause him any more pain by making him relive the details. "It's okay," I murmur softly, desperate to bring him back to the playful boy of a moment ago. "It's okay," I repeat over and over soothingly.

"Let's go to bed," he says quietly after a while, and he pulls away from me, leaving me empty and aching as he rises from the bed. I scramble after him, keeping the satin sheet wrapped around me, and bend to pick up my clothes.

"Leave those," he says, and before I know it, he scoops me up in his arms. "I don't want you to trip over this sheet and break your neck." I put my arms around him marveling that he's recovered his composure, and nuzzle him as he carries me downstairs to our bedroom.

My eyes spring open. Something is wrong. Christian is not in bed, though it's still dark. Glancing at the radio alarm, I see it's three twenty in the morning. Where's Christian? Then I hear the piano.

Quickly slipping out of bed, I grab my robe and run down the hallway to the great room. The tune he's playing is so sad—a mournful lament that I've heard him play before. I pause in the doorway and watch him in a pool of light while the achingly sorrowful music fills the room. He finishes then starts the piece again.

Why such a plaintive tune? I wrap my arms around myself and listen spellbound as he plays. But my heart aches. Christian, why so sad? Is it because of me? Did I do this? When he finishes, only to start a third time, I can bear it no longer. He doesn't look up as I near the piano, but shifts to one side so I can sit beside him on the piano bench. He continues to play, and I put my head on his shoulder. He kisses my hair but doesn't stop playing until he's finished the piece. I peek up at him and he's staring down at me, warily.

"Did I wake you?" he asks.

"Only because you were gone. What's that piece called?"

"It's Chopin. It's one of his preludes in E minor." Christian pauses. "It's called Suffocation . . ."

Reaching over I take his hand. "You're really shaken by all this, aren't you?"

He snorts. "A deranged asshole gets into my apartment to kidnap my wife.

She won't do as she's told. She drives me crazy. She safe words on me." He closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again, they are stark and raw.

"Yeah, I'm pretty shaken up."

I squeeze his hand. "I'm sorry."

He presses his forehead against mine. "I dreamed you were dead," he whispers.

What?

"Lying on the floor—so cold—and you wouldn't wake up."

Oh, Fifty.

"Hey—it was just a bad dream." Reaching up, I clasp his head in my hands.

His eyes burn into mine and the anguish in them is sobering. "I'm here and I'm cold without you in the bed. Come back to bed, please." I take his hand and stand, waiting to see if he'll follow me. Finally he stands, too. He's wearing his pajama bottoms, and they hang in that way he has, and I want to run my fingers along the inside of his waistband, but I resist and lead him back to the bedroom.

When I wake he's curled around me, sleeping peacefully. I relax and enjoy his en-veloping heat, his skin on my skin. I lie very still, not wanting to disturb him.

Boy, what an evening. I feel like I've been run over by a train—the freight train that is my husband. Hard to believe that the man lying beside me, looking so serene and young in his sleep, was so tortured last night . . . and so tortured me last night. I gaze up at the ceiling, and it occurs to me that I always think of Christian as strong and dominating—yet the reality is he's so fragile, my lost boy. And the irony is that he looks upon me as fragile—and I don't think I am. Compared to him I'm strong.

But am I strong enough for both of us? Strong enough to do what I'm told and give him some peace of mind? I sigh. He's not asking that much of me. I flit through our conversation of last night. Did we decide anything other than to both try harder? The bottom line is that I love this man, and I need to chart a course for both of us. One that lets me keep my integrity and independence but still be more for him. I am his more, and he is mine. I resolve to make a special effort this weekend not to give him cause for concern.Christian stirs and lifts his head off my chest, looking sleepily at me.

"Good morning, Mr. Grey." I smile.

"Good morning, Mrs. Grey. Did you sleep well?" He stretches out beside me.

"Once my husband stopped making that terrible racket on the piano, yes, I did."

He smiles his shy smile, and I melt. "Terrible racket? I'll be sure to e-mail Miss Kathie and let her know."

"Miss Kathie?"

"My piano teacher."

I giggle.

"That's a lovely sound," he says. "Shall we have a better day today?"

"Okay," I agree. "What do you want to do?"

"After I have made love to my wife, and she's cooked me breakfast, I'd like to take her to Aspen."

I gape at him. "Aspen?"

"Yes."

"Aspen, Colorado?"

"The very same. Unless they've moved it. After all, you did pay twenty-four thousand dollars for the experience."

I grin at him. "That was your money."

"Our money."

"It was your money when I made the bid." I roll my eyes.

"Oh, Mrs. Grey, you and your eye rolling," he whispers as he runs his hand up my thigh.

"Won't it take hours to get to Colorado?" I ask to distract him.

"Not by jet," he says silkily as his hand reaches my behind.

Of course, my husband has a jet. How could I forget? His hand continues to skim up my body, lifting my nightdress as it goes, and soon I've forgotten everything.

Taylor drives us onto the tarmac at Sea-Tac and around to where the GEH jet is waiting. It's a gray day in Seattle, but I refuse to let the weather dampen my soaring spirits. Christian is in a much better mood. He's excited about something—lit up like Christmas and twitching like a small boy with a big secret. I wonder what scheme he's dreamed up. He looks dreamy, all tousled hair, white T-shirt and black jeans. Not CEO-like at all today. He takes my hand as Taylor glides to a stop at the foot of the jet steps.

"I have a surprise for you," he murmurs and kisses my knuckles.

I grin at him. "Good surprise?"

"I hope so." He smiles warmly.

Hmm . . . what can it be?

Sawyer leaps out from the front and opens my door. Taylor opens Christian's then retrieves our cases from the trunk. Stephan is waiting at the top of the stairs when we enter the aircraft. I glance into the cockpit and see First Officer Beighley flipping switches on the imposing instrument panel.

Christian and Stephan shake hands. "Good morning, sir." Stephan smiles.

"Thanks for doing this at such short notice." Christian grins back at him.

"Our guests here?"

"Yes sir."

Guests? I turn and gasp. Kate, Elliot, Mia, and Ethan are all smiling and sitting in the cream-colored leather seats. Wow! I spin around to Christian.

"Surprise!" he says.

"How? When? Who?" I mumble inarticulately, trying to contain my delight and elation.

"You said you didn't see enough of your friends." He shrugs and gives me a lopsided, apologetic smile.

"Oh, Christian, thank you." I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him hard in front of everyone. He puts his hands on my hips, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops of my jeans, and deepens the kiss.

Oh my.

"Keep this up and I'll drag you into the bedroom," he murmurs.

"You wouldn't dare," I whisper against his lips.

"Oh, Anastasia." He grins, shaking his head. He releases me and without further preamble, stoops down, grabs my thighs, and lifts me over his shoulder.

"Christian, put me down!" I smack his behind.

I briefly catch Stephan's smile as he turns and heads into the cockpit. Taylor is standing at the doorway trying to stifle his grin. Ignoring my pleas and my fu-tile struggles, Christian strides through the narrow cabin past Mia and Ethan who are facing each other in the single seats, past Kate and Elliot, who is whooping like a demented gibbon.

"If you'll excuse me," he says to our four guests. "I need to have a word with my wife in private."

"Christian!" I shout. "Put me down!"

"All in good time, baby."

I have a brief view of Mia, Kate, and Elliot laughing. Damn it! This is not funny, it's embarrassing. Ethan gawks at us, mouth open and utterly shocked, as we disappear into the cabin.

Christian closes the cabin door behind him and releases me, letting me slide down his body slowly, so that I feel every hard sinew and muscle. He gives me his boyish grin, thoroughly pleased with himself.

"That was quite a show, Mr. Grey," I murmur, crossing my arms and regarding him with faux indignation.

"That was fun, Mrs. Grey." And his grin widens. Oh boy. He looks so young.

"Are you going to follow through?" I arch a brow, unsure how I feel about this. I mean, the others will hear us, for heaven's sake. Suddenly, I feel shy. Glancing anxiously at the bed, I feel a blush steal across my cheeks as I recall our wedding night. We talked so much yesterday, did so much yesterday. I feel as if we leaped some unknown hurdle—but that's the problem. It's unknown. My eyes find Christian's intense but amused gaze, and I'm unable to keep a straight face.

His grin is too infectious.

"I think it might be rude to keep our guests waiting," he says silkily as he steps toward me. When did he start to care what people think? I step back against the cabin wall and he imprisons me, the heat from his body holding me in place.

He leans down and runs his nose along mine.

"Good surprise?" he whispers, and there's a hint of anxiety in his voice.

"Oh, Christian, fantastic surprise." I run my hands up his chest, curl them around his neck, and kiss him.

"When did you organize this?" I ask when I pull away from him, stroking his hair.

"Last night, when I couldn't sleep. I e-mailed Elliot and Mia, and here they are."

"It's very thoughtful. Thank you. I'm sure we'll have a great time."

"I hope so. I thought it would be easier to avoid the press in Aspen than at home."

The paparazzi! He's right. If we'd stayed in Escala, we'd have been imprisoned. A shiver runs down my spine as I recollect the snapping cameras and dazzling flashes of the few photographers Taylor sped through this morning.

"Come. We'd better take our seats—Stephan will be taking off shortly." He offers me his hand and together we walk back into the cabin.

Elliot cheers as we enter. "That sure was speedy in-flight service!" he calls mockingly.

Christian ignores him.

"Please be seated, ladies and gentlemen as we'll shortly begin taxiing for takeoff." Stephan's voice echoes calmly and authoritatively around the cabin. The brunette woman— um . . . Natalie? —who was on the flight for our wedding night appears from the galley and gathers up the discarded coffee cups. Natalia . . . Her name's Natalia.

"Good morning Mr. Grey, Mrs. Grey," she says with a purr. Why does she make me uncomfortable? Maybe it's that she's a brunette. By his own admission, Christian doesn't usually employ brunettes because he finds them attractive. He gives Natalia a polite smile as he slides in behind the table and sits down facing Elliot and Kate. I swiftly hug Kate and Mia and give Ethan and Elliot a wave before sitting down and buckling up beside Christian. He puts his hand on my knee and gives it an affectionate squeeze. He seems relaxed and happy even though we're with company. Idly, I wonder why he can't always be like this—not controlling at all.

"Hope you packed your hiking boots," he says, his voice warm.

"We're not going skiing?"

"That would be a challenge, in August," he says, amused.

Oh, of course.

"Do you ski, Ana?" Elliot interrupts us.

"No."

Christian moves his hand from my knee to clasp my hand.

"I'm sure my little brother can teach you." Elliot winks at me. "He's pretty fast on the slopes, too."

And I can't help my blush. When I glance up at Christian, he's gazing impassively at Elliot, but I think he's trying to suppress his mirth. The plane surges forward and starts taxiing toward the runway.

Natalia runs through the plane's safety procedures in a clear, ringing voice.

She's dressed in a neat navy short-sleeved shirt and matching pencil skirt. Her makeup is immaculate—she really is quite pretty. My subconscious raises a plucked-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life eyebrow at me.

"You okay?" Kate asks me pointedly. "I mean, following the Hyde business?"

I nod. I don't want to think or talk about Hyde, but Kate seems to have other plans.

"So why did he go postal?" she asks, cutting to the heart of the matter in her inimitable style. She tosses her hair behind her as she prepares to investigate the matter.

Eyeing her coolly, Christian shrugs. "I fired his ass," he says bluntly.

"Oh? Why?" Kate tilts her head to one side, and I know she's in full Nancy Drew mode.

"He made at pass at me," I mutter. I try to kick Kate's ankle beneath the table, and miss. Shit!

"When?" Kate glares at me.

"Ages ago."

"You never told me he made a pass at you!" she splutters.

I shrug, apologetically.

"It can't just be a grudge about that, surely. I mean his reaction is way too ex-treme," Kate continues, but now she directs her questions at Christian. "Is he mentally unstable? What about all the information he has on you Greys?" Her grilling Christian this way makes my hackles rise, but she's already established I know nothing so she can't ask me. The thought is annoying.

"We think there's a connection with Detroit," Christian says mildly. Too mildly. Oh no, Kate, please give it up for now.

"Hyde is from Detroit, too?"

Christian nods.

The plane accelerates, and I tighten my grip on Christian's hand. He glances at me reassuringly. He knows I hate takeoffs and landings. He squeezes my hand and his thumb strokes my knuckles, calming me.

"What do you know about him?" Elliot asks, oblivious to the fact we are hurtling down the runway in a small jet about to launch itself into the sky, and equally oblivious to Christian's growing exasperation with Kate. Kate leans forward, listening attentively.

"This is off the record," Christian says directly to her. Kate's mouth sets in a subtle but thin line. I swallow. Oh shit.

"We know a little about him," Christian continues. "His dad died in a brawl in a bar. His mother drank herself into oblivion. He was in and out of foster homes as a kid . . . in and out of trouble, too. Mainly boosting cars. Spent time in juvie. His mom got back on track through some outreach program, and Hyde turned himself around. Won a scholarship to Princeton."

"Princeton?" Kate's curiosity is piqued.

"Yep. He's a bright boy." Christian shrugs.

"Not that bright. He got caught," Elliot mutters.

"But surely he can't have pulled this stunt alone?" Kate asks.

Christian stiffens beside me. "We don't know yet." His voice is very quiet.

Holy crap. There could be someone working with him? I turn and gape in horror at Christian. He squeezes my hand once more but doesn't look me in the eye. The plane lifts smoothly into the air, and I get that horrible sinking feeling in my stomach.

"How old is he?" I ask Christian, leaning close so only he can hear. Much as I'd like to know what's going on, I don't want to encourage Kate's questions. I know they're irritating Christian, and I'm sure she's on his shit list since Cocktailgate.

"Thirty-two. Why?"

"Curious, that's all."

Christian's jaw tightens. "Don't be curious about Hyde. I'm just glad the fucker's locked up." It's almost a reprimand, but I choose to ignore his tone.

"Do you think he's working with someone?" The thought that someone else might be involved makes me sick. It would mean this isn't over.

"I don't know," Christian answers, and his jaw tightens once more.

"Maybe someone who has a grudge against you?" I suggest. Holy shit. I hope it's not the bitch troll. "Like Elena?" I whisper. I realize I've muttered her name out loud, but only he can hear. I glance anxiously at Kate, but she's deep in conversation with Elliot who looks pissed at her. Hmm.

"You do like to demonize her, don't you?" Christian rolls his eyes and shakes his head in disgust. "She may hold a grudge, but she wouldn't do this kind of thing." He pins me with a steady gray gaze. "Let's not discuss her. I know she's not your favorite topic of conversation."

"Have you confronted her?" I whisper, not sure if I really want to know.

"Ana, I haven't spoken to her since my birthday party. Please, drop it. I don't want to talk about her." He raises my hand and brushes my knuckles with his lips.

His eyes burn into mine, and I know I shouldn't pursue this line of questioning right now.

"Get a room," Elliot teases. "Oh right—you already have, but you didn't need it for long." He smirks.

Christian glances up and pins Elliot with a cool glare. "Fuck off, Elliot," he says without malice.

"Dude, just telling you how it is." Elliot's eyes light up with mirth.

"Like you'd know," Christian murmurs sardonically, raising an eyebrow.

Elliot grins, enjoying the banter. "You married your first girlfriend." Elliot gestures at me.

Oh shit. Where is this going? I flush.

"Can you blame me?" Christian kisses my hand again.

"No." Elliot laughs and shakes his head.

I flush, and Kate slaps Elliot's thigh.

"Stop being an ass," she scolds him.

"Listen to your girlfriend," Christian says to Elliot, grinning, and his earlier concern seems to have disappeared. My ears pop as we gain altitude, and the tension in the cabin dissipates as the plane levels out. Kate scowls at Elliot. Hmm . . .

is something up between them? I'm not sure.

Elliot is right. I snort at the irony. I am—was—Christian's first girlfriend, and now I'm his wife. The fifteen and the evil Mrs. Robinson—they don't count.

But then Elliot doesn't know about them, and clearly Kate hasn't told him. I smile at her, and she gives me a conspiratorial wink. My secrets are safe with Kate.

"Okay, ladies and gentlemen, we'll be cruising at an altitude of approximately thirty-two thousand feet, and our estimated flight time is one hour and fifty-six minutes," Stephan announces. "You are now free to move around the cabin."

Natalia appears abruptly from the galley.

"May I offer anyone coffee?" she asks.

Chapter Thirteen

We land smoothly at Sardy Field at 12:25 p.m. (MST). Stephan brings the plane to a halt a little way from the main terminal, and through the windows I spot a large VW minivan waiting for us.

"Good landing." Christian grins and shakes Stephan's hand as we get ready to file out of the jet.

"It's all about the density altitude, sir." Stephan smiles back. "Beighley here is good at math."

Christian nods at Stephan's first officer. "You nailed it, Beighley. Smooth landing."

"Thank you, sir." She grins smugly.

"Enjoy your weekend, Mr. Grey, Mrs. Grey. We'll see you tomorrow."

Stephan steps aside to let us disembark and taking my hand, Christian leads me down the aircraft steps to where Taylor is waiting by the vehicle.

"Minivan?" says Christian in surprise as Taylor slides open the door.

Taylor gives him a tight, contrite smile and a slight shrug.

"Last minute, I know," Christian says, immediately placated. Taylor returns to the plane to retrieve our luggage.

"Want to make out in the back of the van?" Christian murmurs to me, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

I giggle. Who is this man, and what has he done with Mr. Unbelievably Angry of the last couple of days?

"Come on, you two. Get in," Mia says from behind us, oozing impatience beside Ethan. We climb in, stagger to the double seat at the back, and sit down. I snuggle against Christian, and he puts his arm around the back of my seat. "Comfortable?" he murmurs as Mia and Ethan take the seat in front of us.

"Yes." I smile and he kisses my forehead. And for some unfathomable reason I feel shy with him today. Why? Last night? Being with company? I can't put my finger on it.

Elliot and Kate join us last as Taylor opens the liftgate to load the luggage.

Five minutes later, we are on our way.

I gaze out the window as we head toward Aspen. The trees are green, but a whisper of the coming fall is evident here and there in the yellowing tips of the leaves. The sky is a clear crystal blue, though there are darkening clouds to the west. All around us in the distance loom the Rockies, the highest peak directly ahead. They're lush and green, and the highest are capped with snow and look like a child's drawing of mountains.

We're in the winter playground of the rich and famous. And I own a house here. I can barely believe it. And from deep within my psyche, the familiar unease that's always present when I try to wrap my head around Christian's wealth looms and taunts me, making me feel guilty. What have I done to deserve this lifestyle?

I've done nothing, nothing except fall in love.

"Have you been to Aspen before, Ana?" Ethan turns and asks, dragging me out of my reverie.

"No, first time. You?"

"Kate and I used to come here a lot when we were teens. Dad's a keen skier.

Mom less so."

"I'm hoping my husband will teach me how to ski." I glance up at my man.

"Don't bet on it," Christian mutters.

"I won't be that bad!"

"You might break your neck." His grin gone.

Oh. I don't want to argue and sour his good mood, so I change the subject.

"How long have you had this place?"

"Nearly two years. It's yours now, too, Mrs. Grey," he says softly.

"I know," I whisper. But somehow I don't feel the courage of my convictions. Leaning in, I kiss his jaw and nestle once more at his side listening to him laugh and joke with Ethan and Elliot. Mia chimes in occasionally, but Kate is quiet, and I wonder if she's brooding about Jack Hyde or something else. Then I remember. Aspen . . . Christian's house here was redesigned by Gia Matteo and rebuilt by Elliot. I wonder if that's what's preoccupying Kate. I can't ask her in front of Elliot, given his history with Gia. Does Kate even know about Gia's connection to the house? I frown wondering what could be bothering her and resolve to ask her when we're on our own.

We drive through the center of Aspen and my mood brightens as I take in the town. There are squat buildings of mostly red brick, Swiss-style chalets, and nu-merous little turn of the century houses painted in fun colors. Plenty of banks and designer shops, too, betraying the affluence of the local populace. Of course Christian fits in here.

"Why did you choose Aspen?" I ask him.

"What?" He regards me quizzically.

"To buy a place."

"Mom and Dad used to bring us here when we were kids. I learned to ski here, and I like the place. I hope you do, too—otherwise we'll sell the house and choose somewhere else."

Simple as that!

He tucks a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. "You look lovely today," he murmurs.

My cheeks heat. I'm just wearing my travelling gear: jeans and a T-shirt with a lightweight navy blue jacket. Damn it. Why does he make me feel shy?

He kisses me, a tender, sweet, loving kiss.

Taylor drives us on out of town, and we start to climb the other side of the valley, twisting along a mountain road. The higher we go, the more excited I get, and Christian tenses beside me.

"What's wrong?" I ask as we round a bend.

"I hope you like it," he says quietly. "We're here."

Taylor slows and turns through a gateway made of gray, beige, and red stones. He heads down the driveway and finally pulls up outside the impressive house. Double fronted with high-pitched roofs and built of dark wood and the same mixed stone as the gateway. It's stunning—modern and stark, very much Christian's style.

"Home," he mouths at me as our guests start piling out of the van.

"Looks good."

"Come. See," he says, an excited, though anxious, gleam in his eyes as if he's about to show me his science project or something.

Mia runs up the steps to where a woman stands in the doorway. She's tiny and her raven-colored hair is dusted with gray. Mia flings her arms around her neck and hugs her tightly.

"Who's that?" I ask as Christian helps me out of the van.

"Mrs. Bentley. She lives here with her husband. They look after the place."

Holy cow . . . more staff?

Mia is making introductions—Ethan, then Kate. Elliot hugs Mrs. Bentley, too. As Taylor unloads the van, Christian takes my hand and leads me to the front door.

"Welcome back, Mr. Grey." Mrs. Bentley smiles.

"Carmella, this is my wife, Anastasia," Christian says proudly. His tongue caresses my name, making my heart stutter.

"Mrs. Grey," Mrs. Bentley nods a respectful greeting. I hold out my hand and we shake. It's no surprise to me that she's much more formal with Christian than the rest of the family.

"I hope you've had a pleasant flight. The weather is supposed to be fine all weekend, though I'm not sure." She eyes the darkening gray clouds behind us.

"Lunch is ready whenever you want." She smiles again, her dark eyes twinkling, and I warm to her immediately.

"Here." Christian grabs me and lifts me off my feet.

"What are you doing?" I squeal.

"Carrying you over yet another threshold, Mrs. Grey."

I grin as he carries me into the wide hallway, and after a brief kiss, he sets me gently down onto the hardwood floor. The interior décor is stark and reminds me of the great room at Escala—all white walls, dark wood, and contemporary abstract art. The hallway opens up into a large sitting area where three off-white leather couches surround a stone fireplace that dominates the room. The only color is from the soft cushions scattered on the couches. Mia grabs Ethan's hand and drags him farther into the house. Christian narrows his eyes at their departing figures, his mouth thinning. He shakes his head then turns to me.

Kate whistles loudly. "Nice place."

I glance around to see Elliot helping Taylor with our luggage. I wonder again if she knows that Gia had a hand in this place.

"Tour?" Christian asks me, and whatever was going through his mind about Mia and Ethan has gone. He's radiating excitement—or is it anxiety? It's difficult to tell.

"Sure." Once again I'm overwhelmed by the wealth. How much did this place cost? And I have contributed nothing to it. Briefly I'm transported back to the first time Christian took me to Escala. I was overwhelmed then. You got used to it, my subconscious hisses at me.

Christian frowns but takes my hand, leading me through the various rooms.

The state-of-the-art kitchen is all pale marble countertops and black cupboards.

There's an impressive wine cellar, and an expansive den downstairs, complete with large plasma screen, soft couches . . . and a billiard table. I gape at it and blush when Christian catches me.

"Fancy a game?" he asks, a wicked gleam in his eye. I shake my head, and his brow furrows once more. Taking my hand again, he leads me up to the first floor. There are four bedrooms upstairs, each with an en suite bathroom.

The master suite is something else. The bed is huge, bigger than the bed at home, and faces an enormous picture window looking out over Aspen and toward the verdant mountains.

"That's Ajax Mountain . . . or Aspen Mountain, if you like," Christian says, eyeing me warily. He's standing in the doorway, his thumbs hooked through the belt loops on his black jeans.

I nod.

"You're very quiet," he murmurs.

"It's lovely, Christian." And suddenly I'm aching to be back at Escala.

In five long strides he's standing in front of me, tugging at my chin, and releasing my lower lip from the grip of my teeth.

"What is it?" he asks, his eyes searching mine.

"You're very rich."

"Yes."

"Sometimes, it just takes me by surprise how wealthy you are."

"We are."

"We are," I mutter automatically.

"Don't stress about this, Ana, please. It's just a house."

"And what did Gia do here, exactly?"

"Gia?" He raises his eyebrows in surprise.

"Yes. She remodeled this place?"

"She did. She designed the den downstairs. Elliot did the build." He rakes his hand through his hair and frowns at me. "Why are we talking about Gia?"

"Did you know she had a fling with Elliot?"

Christian gazes at me for a moment, gray eyes unreadable. "Elliot's fucked most of Seattle, Ana."

I gasp.

"Mainly women, I understand," Christian jokes. I think he's amused by my expression.

"No!"

Christian nods. "It's none of my business." He holds his palms up.

"I don't think Kate knows."

"I'm not sure he broadcasts that information. Kate seems to be holding her own."

I'm shocked. Sweet, unassuming, blond, blue-eyed Elliot? I stare in disbelief.

Christian tilts his head to one side, scrutinizing me. "This can't just be about Gia or Elliot's promiscuity."

"I know. I'm sorry. After all that's happened this week, it's just . . ." I shrug, feeling tearful all of a sudden. Christian seems to sag with relief. Pulling me into his arms, he holds me tightly, his nose in my hair.

"I know. I'm sorry, too. Let's relax and enjoy ourselves, okay? You can stay here and read, watch god-awful TV, shop, go hiking—fishing even. Whatever you want to do. And forget what I said about Elliot. That was indiscreet of me."

"Goes some way to explain why he's always teasing you," I murmur, nuzzling his chest.

"He really has no idea about my past. I told you, my family assumed I was gay. Celibate, but gay."

I giggle and begin to relax in his arms. "I thought you were celibate. How wrong I was." I wrap my arms around him, marveling at the ridiculousness of Christian being gay.

"Mrs. Grey, are you smirking at me?"

"Maybe a little." I acquiesce. "You know, what I don't understand is why you have this place?"

"What do you mean?" He kisses my hair.

"You have the boat, which I get, you have the place in New York for business—but why here? It's not like you shared it with anyone."

Christian stills and is silent for several beats. "I was waiting for you," he says softly, his eyes dark gray and luminous.

"That's . . . that's such a lovely thing to say."

"It's true. I didn't know it at the time." He smiles his shy smile.

"I'm glad you waited."

"You are worth waiting for, Mrs. Grey." He tips my chin up with his finger, leans down, and kisses me tenderly.

"So are you." I smile. "Though I feel I like I cheated. I didn't have to wait long for you at all."

He grins. "Am I that much of a prize?"

"Christian, you are the state lottery, the cure for cancer, and the three wishes from Aladdin's lamp all rolled into one."

He raises a brow.

"When will you realize this?" I scold him. "You were a very eligible bachelor. And I don't mean all this." I wave dismissingly at our plush surroundings. "I mean in here." I place my hand over his heart, and his eyes widen. My confident, sexy husband has gone, and I'm facing my lost boy. "Believe me, Christian, please," I whisper and clasp his face, pulling his lips to mine. He groans, and I don't know if it's hearing what I've said or his usual primal response. I claim him, my lips moving against his, my tongue invading his mouth.

When we're both breathless, he pulls away, eyeing me doubtfully.

"When are you going to get it through your exceptionally thick skull that I love you?" I ask, exasperated.

He swallows. "One day," he says.

This is progress. I smile and am rewarded with his answering shy smile.

"Come. Let's have some lunch—the others will be wondering where we are.

We can discuss what we all want to do."

"Oh no!" Kate says suddenly.

All eyes turn to her.

"Look," she says, pointing to the picture window. Outside, rain has started pouring down. We are sitting around the dark wood table in the kitchen having consumed an Italian feast of a mixed antipasto, prepared by Mrs. Bentley, and a bottle or two of Frascati. I'm replete and a little buzzed from the alcohol.

"There goes our hike," Elliot mutters, sounding vaguely relieved. Kate scowls at him. Something is definitely up with them. They have been relaxed with all of us but not with each other.

"We could go into town," Mia pipes up. Ethan smirks at her.

"Perfect weather for fishing," Christian suggests.

"I'll go fish," Ethan says.

"Let's split up." Mia claps her hands. "Girls, shopping—boys, outdoor boring stuff."

I glance at Kate, who regards Mia indulgently. Fishing or shopping? Jeez, what a choice.

"Ana, what do you want to do?" Christian asks.

"I don't mind," I lie.

Kate catches my eye and mouths "shopping." Perhaps she wants to talk.

"But I'm more than happy to go shopping." I smile wryly at Kate and Mia.

Christian smirks. He knows I hate shopping.

"I can stay here with you, if you'd like," he murmurs, and something dark unfurls in my belly at his tone.

"No, you go fish," I answer. Christian needs boy time.

"Sounds like a plan," Kate says, rising from the table.

"Taylor will accompany you," Christian says, and it's a given—not up for discussion.

"We don't need babysitting," Kate retorts bluntly, direct as ever.

I put my hand on Kate's arm. "Kate, Taylor should come."

She frowns, then shrugs, and for once in her life holds her tongue.

I smile timidly at Christian . His expression remains impassive. Oh, I hope he's not mad at Kate.

Elliot frowns. "I need to pick up a battery for my watch in town." He glances quickly at Kate, and I spot his slight blush. She doesn't notice because she is pointedly ignoring him.

"Take the Audi, Elliot. When you come back we can go fishing," Christian says.

"Yeah," Elliot mutters, but he seems distracted. "Good plan."

"In here." Grabbing my hand, Mia hauls me into a designer boutique that's all pink silk and faux-French distressed rustic furniture. Kate follows us while Taylor waits outside, sheltering under the awning from the rain. Aretha is belting out

"Say A Little Prayer" over the store's hi-fi system. I love this song. I should put it on Christian's iPod.

"This will look wonderful on you, Ana." Mia holds up a scrap of silver material. "Here, try it on."

"Um . . . it's a bit short."

"You'll look fantastic in it. Christian will love it."

"You think?"

Mia beams at me. "Ana, you have legs to die for, and if we go clubbing tonight"—she smiles, sensing an easy kill—"you'll look hot for your husband."

I blink at her, slightly shocked. We're going clubbing? I don't do clubbing.

Kate laughs at my expression. She seems more relaxed now that she's away from Elliot. "We should throw some shapes this evening," she says.

"Go try it on," Mia orders, and reluctantly I head for the changing room.

While I wait for Kate and Mia to emerge from the dressing room, I stroll to the shop window and look out, unseeing, across the main street. The soul compilation continues: Dionne Warwick is singing "Walk On By." Another great song—one of my mother's favorites. I glance down at The Dress in my hand. Dress is perhaps an overstatement. It's backless and very short, but Mia has declared it a winner, perfect for dancing the night away. Apparently, I need shoes, too, and a large chunky necklace, which we'll source next. Rolling my eyes, I reflect once more on how lucky I am to have Caroline Acton, my own personal shopper.

Through the boutique window I'm distracted by the sight of Elliot. He has appeared on the other side of the leafy main street, climbing out of a large Audi.

He dives into a store as if to duck out of the rain. Looks like a jewelry store . . .

maybe he's looking for that watch battery. He emerges a few minutes later and not alone—with a woman.

Fuck! He's talking to Gia! What the hell is she doing here?

As I watch, they hug briefly and she holds her head back, laughing animatedly at something he says. He kisses her cheek then runs to the waiting car. She turns and heads down the street, and I gape after her. What was that about? I turn anxiously toward the dressing rooms, but there's still no sign of Kate or Mia.

I glance at Taylor, where he's waiting outside the store. He catches my eye then shrugs. He's witnessed Elliot's little encounter, too. I blush, embarrassed to have been caught snooping. Turning back, Mia and Kate emerge, both of them laughing. Kate looks at me quizzically.

"What's wrong, Ana?" she asks. "You gone cold on the dress? You look sensational in it."

"Um, no."

"Are you okay?" Kate's eyes widen.

"I'm fine. Shall we pay?" I head to the cashier joining Mia who has chosen two skirts.

"Good afternoon, ma'am." The young sales assistant—who has more gloss coating her lips than I have ever seen in one place—smiles at me. "That'll be eight hundred and fifty dollars."

What? For this scrap of material! I blink at her and meekly hand over my black Amex.

"Mrs. Grey," Ms. Lip Gloss purrs.

I follow Kate and Mia in a daze for the next two hours, warring with myself.

Should I tell Kate? My subconscious firmly shakes her head. Yes, I should tell her. No, I shouldn't. It could just have been an innocent meeting. Shit. What should I do?

"Well, do you like the shoes, Ana?" Mia has her fists on her hips.

"Um . . . yeah, sure."

I end up with a pair of unfeasibly high Manolo Blahniks with straps that look like they are made from mirrors. They match the dress perfectly and set Christian back just over a thousand dollars. I'm luckier with the long silver chain that Kate insists I buy; it's a bargain at eighty-four dollars.

"Getting used to having money?" Kate asks not unkindly as we walk back to the car. Mia has skipped ahead.

"You know this isn't me, Kate. I'm kind of uncomfortable about all this. But I'm reliably informed it's part of the package." I purse my lips at her, and she puts her arm around me.

"You'll get used to it, Ana," she says sympathetically. "You'll look great."

"Kate, how are you and Elliot getting along?" I ask.

Her wide blue eyes dart to mine.

Oh no.

She shakes her head. "I don't want to talk about it now." She nods toward Mia. "But things are—" She doesn't finish her sentence.

This is unlike my tenacious Kate. Shit. I knew something was up. Do I tell her what I saw? What did I see? Elliot and Miss Well-Groomed-Sexual-Predator talking, hugging, and that kiss on the cheek. Surely they are just old friends? No, I won't tell her. Not right now. I give her my I-completely-understand-and-will-respect-your-privacy nod. She reaches for my hand and gives it a grateful squeeze, and there it is—a swift glimpse of pain and hurt in her eyes that she quickly stifles with a blink. I feel a sudden surge of protectiveness for my dear friend. What the hell is Elliot Manwhore Grey playing at?

Once back at the house, Kate decides we deserve cocktails after our shopping ex-travaganza and whips up some strawberry daiquiris for us. We curl up on the sitting room couches in front of the blazing log fire.

"Elliot has just been a little distant lately," Kate murmurs, gazing into the flames. Kate and I finally have a moment to ourselves as Mia puts away her purchases."Oh?"

"And I think I'm in trouble for getting you into trouble."

"You heard about that?"

"Yes. Christian called Elliot; Elliot called me."

I roll my eyes. Oh, Fifty, Fifty, Fifty.

"I'm sorry. Christian is . . . protective. You haven't seen Elliot since cocktailgate?"

"No."

"Oh."

"I really like him, Ana," she whispers. And for one dreadful minute I think she's going to cry. This is not like Kate. Does this mean the return of the pink pajamas? She turns to me.

"I've fallen in love with him. At first I thought it was just the great sex. But he's charming and kind and warm and funny. I could see us growing old together—you know . . . kids, grandkids—the works."

"Your happily ever after," I whisper.

She nods sadly.

"Maybe you should talk to him. Try to find some alone time here. Find out what's eating him."

Who's eating him, my subconscious snarls. I slap her down, shocked at the waywardness of my own thoughts.

"Perhaps you guys could go for a walk tomorrow morning?"

"We'll see."

"Kate, I hate seeing you like this."

She smiles weakly, and I lean over to hug her. I resolve not to mention Gia, though I might mention it to the manwhore himself. How can he mess with my friend's affections like this?

Mia returns, and we move on to safer territory.

The fire hisses and spits sparks on to the hearth as I feed it the last log. We're almost out of wood. Even though it's summer, the fire is very welcome on this wet day.

"Mia, do you know where the wood for the fire is kept?" I ask as she sips her daiquiri.

"I think it's in the garage."

"I'll go find some. It'll give me an opportunity to explore."

The rain has eased off when I venture outside and head to the three-car garage adjoining the house. The side door is unlocked and I enter, switching on the light to fight the gloom. The fluorescent strips ping noisily to life.

There's a car in the garage, and I realize it's the Audi I saw Elliot in this afternoon. There are also two snowmobiles. But what really grabs my attention are the two trail bikes, both 125cc. Memories of Ethan bravely endeavoring to teach me how to ride last summer flash through my mind. Unconsciously, I rub my arm where I badly bruised it in a fall.

"You ride?" Elliot asks from behind me.

I whirl around. "You're back."

"It would appear so." He grins, and I realize that Christian might say the same thing to me—but without the huge, heart-melting grin. "Well?" he asks.

Manwhore! "Sort of."

"Do you want a go?"

I snort. "Um, no . . . I don't think Christian would be very happy if I did."

"Christian's not here." Elliot smirks— oh, it's a family trait—and waves his arm to indicate we're alone. He strolls toward the nearest bike and swings a long denim-clad leg over the saddle, sitting astride and grabbing the handlebars.

"Christian has, um . . . issues about my safety. I shouldn't."

"You always do what he says?" Elliot has a wicked sparkle in his baby-blue eyes, and I see a glimmer of the bad boy . . . the bad boy Kate has fallen in love with. The bad boy from Detroit.

"No." I arch an admonishing brow at him. "But I'm trying to put that right.

He has enough to worry about without adding me to the mix. Is he back?"

"I don't know."

"You didn't go fishing?"

Elliot shakes his head. "I had some business to deal with in town."

Business! Holy shit—groomed blonde business! I inhale sharply and gape at him.

"If you don't want to ride, what are you doing in the garage?" Elliot is intrigued.

"I'm looking for wood for the fire."

"There you are. Oh, Elliot—you're back." Kate interrupts us.

"Hey, baby." He smiles broadly.

"Catch anything?"

I scrutinize Elliot's reaction. "No. I had a few things to take care of in town."

And for one brief moment, I see a flash of uncertainty cross his face.

Oh shit.

"I came out to see what was keeping Ana." Kate looks at us, confused.

"We were just shooting the breeze," Elliot says, and the tension crackles between them.

We all pause as we hear a car pull up outside. Oh! Christian's back. Thank heavens. The garage door opener whirrs loudly into action, startling us all, and the door slowly lifts to reveal Christian and Ethan unloading a black flatbed truck.

Christian stops when he sees us standing in the garage.

"Garage band?" he asks sardonically as he wanders in, heading straight for me.

I grin. I am relieved to see him. Beneath his wading jacket, he's wearing the coveralls I sold him at Claytons.

"Hi," he says looking quizzically at me, ignoring both Kate and Elliot.

"Hi. Nice coveralls."

"Lots of pockets. Very handy for fishing." His voice is soft and seductive, for my ears only, and when he gazes down at me, his expression is hot.

I flush, and he smiles a huge, no-holds-barred, all-for-me smile.

"You're wet," I murmur.

"It was raining. What are you guys doing in the garage?" Finally he acknowledges that we are not alone.

"Ana came to fetch some wood," Elliot smirks. Somehow he manages to make that sentence sound smutty. "I tried to tempt her to take a ride." He is master of the double entendre.

Christian's face falls, and my heart stills.

"She said no. That you wouldn't like it," Elliot says kindly—and innuendo-free.

Christian's gray gaze swings back to me. "Did she, now?" he murmurs.

"Listen, I'm all for standing around discussing what Ana did next, but shall we go back inside?" Kate snaps. She stoops down, snatches up two logs, and turns on her heel, stomping toward the door. Oh shit. Kate is mad—but I know it's not at me. Elliot sighs and, without a word, follows her out. I gaze after them, but Christian distracts me.

"You can ride a motorcycle?" he asks, his voice laced with disbelief.

"Not very well. Ethan taught me."

His eyes frost immediately. "You made the right decision," he says, his voice much cooler. "The ground's very hard at the moment, and the rain's made it treacherous and slippery."

"Where do you want the fishing gear?" Ethan calls from outside.

"Leave it, Ethan—Taylor will take care of it."

"What about the fish?" Ethan continues, his voice vaguely taunting.

"You caught a fish?" I ask, surprised.

"Not me. Kavanagh did." And Christian pouts . . . prettily.

I burst out laughing.

"Mrs. Bentley will deal with that," he calls back. Ethan grins and heads into the house.

"Am I amusing you, Mrs. Grey?"

"Very much so. You're wet . . . Let me run you a bath."

"As long as you join me." He leans down and kisses me.

I fill the large egg-shaped tub in the en suite bathroom and pour in some expensive bath oil, which starts to foam immediately. The aroma is heavenly . . . jasmine, I think. Back in the bedroom, I start to hang The Dress while the bath fills.

"Did you have a good time?" Christian asks as he enters the room. He's just in a T-shirt and sweat pants, his feet bare. He closes the door behind him.

"Yes," I murmur, drinking him in. I have missed him. Ridiculous—it's only been what, a few hours?

He cocks his head to one side and gazes at me. "What is it?"

"I was thinking how much I've missed you."

"You sound like you have it bad, Mrs. Grey."

"I have, Mr. Grey."

He strolls toward me until he's standing in front of me. "What did you buy?"

he whispers, and I know it's to change the topic of conversation.

"A dress, some shoes, a necklace. I spent a great deal of your money." I glance up at him, guiltily.

He's amused. "Good," he murmurs and tucks a stray lock of my hair behind my ear. "And for the billionth time, our money." He tugs my chin, releasing my lip from my teeth and runs his index finger down the front of my T-shirt, down my sternum, between my breasts, down my stomach, and over my belly to the hem.

"You won't be needing this in the bath," he whispers, and gripping the hem of my T-shirt in both hands, slowly pulls it up. "Lift your arms."

I comply, not taking my eyes off his, and he drops my T-shirt on the floor.

"I thought we were just having a bath." My pulse quickens.

"I want to make you good and dirty first. I've missed you, too." He leans down and kisses me.

"Shit, the water!" I struggle to sit up, all post-orgasmic and dazed.

Christian doesn't release me.

"Christian, the bath!" I gaze down at him from my prone position across his chest.

He laughs. "Relax—it's a wet room." He rolls over and kisses me quickly.

"I'll switch off the faucet."

He climbs gracefully off the bed and strolls into the bathroom. My eyes greedily follow him all the way. Hmm . . . my husband, naked and soon to be wet.

My inner goddess licks her lips salaciously and gives me her well-fucked grin. I bound out of bed.

We sit at opposite ends of the bath, which is very full—so full that whenever we move, water laps over the side and splashes to the floor. It's very decadent. Even more decadent is Christian washing my feet, massaging the soles, pulling gently on my toes. He kisses each one and gently bites my little toe.

"Aaah!" I feel it— there, in my groin.

"Like that?" he breathes.

"Hmm," I mumble incoherently.

He starts massaging again. Oh, this feels good. I close my eyes.

"I saw Gia in town," I murmur.

"Really? I think she has a place here," he says dismissively. He's not interested in the slightest.

"She was with Elliot."

Christian stops massaging. That got his attention. When I open my eyes his head is inclined to one side, like he doesn't understand.

"What do you mean with Elliot?" he asks, perplexed rather than concerned.

I explain what I saw.

"Ana, they're just friends. I think Elliot is pretty stuck on Kate." He pauses then adds more quietly. "In fact I know he's pretty stuck on her." And he gives me his I-have-no-idea-why look.

"Kate is gorgeous." I bristle, championing my friend.

He snorts. "Still glad it was you that fell into my office." He kisses my big toe, releases my left foot, and picks up my right before beginning the massage process again. His fingers are so strong and supple, I relax again. I do not want to fight about Kate. I close my eyes and let his fingers work their magic on my feet.

I gape at myself in the full-length mirror, not recognizing the vixen that stares back at me. Kate has gone all out and played Barbie with me this evening, styling my hair and makeup. My hair is full and straight, my eyes ringed with kohl, my lips scarlet red. I look . . . hot. I'm all legs, especially in the high-heeled Manolos and my indecently short dress. I need Christian to approve, though I have a horrible feeling he won't like so much of my flesh exposed. In view of our entente cordiale, I decide I should ask him. I pick up my BlackBerry.

From: Anastasia Grey

Subject: Does My Butt Look Big In This?

Date: August 27, 2011 18:53 MST

To: Christian Grey

Mr. Grey

I need your sartorial advice.

Yours

Mrs. G x

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Peachy

Date: August 27, 2011 18:55 MST

To: Anastasia Grey

Mrs. Grey

I seriously doubt it.

But I will come and give your butt a thorough examination just to make sure.

Yours in anticipation

Mr. G x

Christian Grey,

CEO Grey Enterprises Holdings and Butt Inspectorate Inc.

As I read his e-mail, the bedroom door opens, and Christian freezes on the threshold. His mouth pops open and his eyes widen.

Holy crap . . . this could go either way.

"Well?" I whisper.

"Ana, you look . . . Wow."

"You like it?"

"Yes, I guess so." He's a little hoarse. Slowly he steps into the room and closes the door. He's wearing black jeans and a white shirt, but with a black jacket. He looks divine. He stalks slowly toward me, but as soon as he reaches me, he puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me around to face the full-length mirror, while he stands behind me. My gaze finds his in the glass, then he glances down, fascinated by my naked back. His finger glides down my spine and reaches the edge of my dress at the small of my back, where pale flesh meets silver cloth.

"This is very revealing," he murmurs.

His hand skims lower, over my backside and down to my naked thigh. He pauses, gray eyes burning intently into blue. Then slowly he trails his fingers back up to the hem of my skirt.

Watching his long fingers move lightly, teasingly across my skin, feeling the tingles they leave in their wake, my mouth forms a perfect O.

"It's not far from here." He touches the hem, then moves his fingers higher.

"To here," he whispers. I gasp as his fingers stroke my sex, moving tantalizingly over my panties, feeling me, teasing me.

"And your point is?" I whisper.

"My point is . . . it's not far from here"—his fingers glide over my panties, then one is inside, against my soft dampened flesh—"to here. And then . . . to here." He slips a finger inside me.

I gasp and make a soft mewling sound.

"This is mine," he murmurs in my ear. Closing his eyes, he moves his finger slowly in and out of me. "I don't want anyone else to see this."

My breath stutters, my panting matching the rhythm of his finger. Watching him in the mirror, doing this . . . it's beyond erotic.

"So be a good girl and don't bend down, and you should be fine."

"You approve?" I whisper.

"No, but I'm not going to stop you wearing it. You look stunning, Anastasia."

Abruptly he withdraws his finger, leaving me wanting more, and he moves around to face me. He places the tip of his invading finger on my lower lip. Instinctively, I pucker my lips and kiss it, and I'm rewarded with a wicked grin. He puts his finger in his mouth and his expression informs me that I taste good . . . real good. I flush. Will it always shock me when he does that?

He grasps my hand.

"Come," he orders softly. I want to retort that I was about to, but in light of what happened in the playroom yesterday, I decide against it.

We are waiting for dessert in a plush, exclusive restaurant in town. It's been a lively evening so far, and Mia is determined it should continue and that we must go clubbing. Right now she's sitting silently for once, hanging on Ethan's every word as he and Christian talk. Mia is obviously infatuated with Ethan, and Ethan is . . . well it's difficult to tell. I don't know if they are just friends or if there's something more.

Christian seems at ease. He's been talking animatedly with Ethan. They obviously bonded over the fly-fishing. They're talking about psychology, mainly.

Ironically, Christian sounds the more knowledgeable. I snort softly as I half listen to their conversation, sadly acknowledging that his expertise is the result of his experience with so many shrinks.

You're the best therapy. His words, whispered while we were making love once, echo in my head. Am I? Oh, Christian, I hope so.

I glance over at Kate. She looks beautiful, but then she always does. She and Elliot are less lively. He seems nervous, his jokes a little too loud, and his laugh a little off. Have they had a fight? What's eating him? Is it that woman? My heart sinks at the thought that he might hurt my best friend. I glance at the entrance, half expecting to see Gia calmly saunter her well-groomed ass across the restaurant to us. My mind is playing tricks, I suspect it's the amount of alcohol I've had.

My head is beginning to ache.

Abruptly, Elliot startles us all by standing and pulling his chair back so it scrapes across the tile floor. All eyes turn to him. He gazes down at Kate for one moment then drops to one knee beside her.

Oh. My. God.

He reaches for her hand, and silence settles like a blanket over the entire restaurant as everyone stops eating, stops talking, stops walking, and stares.

"My beautiful Kate, I love you. Your grace, your beauty, and your fiery spirit have no equal, and you have captured my heart. Spend your life with me. Marry me."

Holy shit!

Chapter Fourteen

The attention of the entire restaurant is trained on Kate and Elliot, waiting with bated breath as one. The anticipation is unbearable. Silence stretches like a taut rubber band. The atmosphere is oppressive, apprehensive, and yet hopeful.

Kate stares blankly at Elliot as he gazes up at her, his eyes wide with longing—fear even. Holy crap, Kate! Put him out of his misery. Please. Jeez—he could have asked her privately.

A single tear trickles down her cheek though she remains expressionless.

Shit! Kate crying? Then she smiles, a slow disbelieving I've-found-Nirvana smile.

"Yes," she whispers, a breathy, sweet acceptance—not Kate-like at all. For one nanosecond there's a pause as the entire restaurant exhales a collective sigh of relief, and then the noise is deafening. Spontaneous applause, cheering, catcalls, whooping, and suddenly I have tears rolling down my face, smudging my Barbie-meets-Joan-Jett makeup.

Oblivious to the commotion around them, the two are locked in their own little world. From his pocket Elliot produces a small box, opens it, and presents it to Kate. A ring. And from what I can see, an exquisite ring, but I need a closer look. Is that what he was doing with Gia? Choosing a ring? Shit! Oh, I'm so glad I didn't tell Kate.

Kate looks from the ring to Elliot then throws her arms around his neck. They kiss, remarkably chaste for them, and the crowd goes wild. Elliot stands and acknowledges the approbation with a surprisingly graceful bow then, wearing a huge self-satisfied grin, sits back down. I can't take my eyes off them. Taking the ring out of its box, Elliot gently slides it onto Kate's finger, and they kiss once more.

Christian squeezes my hand. I didn't realize I'd been gripping his so tightly. I release him, a little embarrassed, and he shakes his hand, mouthing, "Ow."

"Sorry. Did you know about this?" I whisper.

Christian smiles, and I know that he did. He summons the waiter. "Two bottles of the Cristal please. The 2002 if you have it."

I smirk at him.

"What?" he asks.

"Because the 2002 is so much better than the 2003," I tease.

He laughs. "To the discerning palate, Anastasia."

"You have a very discerning palate, Mr. Grey, and singular tastes." I smile.

"That I do, Mrs. Grey." He leans in close. "You taste best," he whispers, and he kisses a certain spot behind my ear, sending little shivers down my spine. I blush scarlet and fondly remember his earlier demonstration of the quite literal shortcomings of my dress.

Mia is the first up to hug Kate and Elliot, and we all take turns congratulating the happy couple. I clutch Kate in a fierce hug.

"See? He was just worried about his proposal," I whisper.

"Oh, Ana." She giggle-sobs.

"Kate, I am so happy for you. Congratulations."

Christian is behind me. He shakes Elliot's hand, then—surprising both Elliot and me—pulls him into a hug. I can only just catch what he says.

"Way to go, Lelliot," he murmurs. Elliot says nothing, for once stunned into silence, then cautiously returns his brother's hug.

Lelliot?

"Thanks, Christian," Elliot chokes out.

Christian gives Kate a brief, if awkward, almost arm's-length hug. I know that Christian's attitude to Kate is tolerant, at best, and ambivalent most of the time, so this is progress. Releasing her, he says so quietly only she and I can hear,

"I hope you are as happy in your marriage as I am in mine."

"Thank you, Christian. I hope so, too," she says graciously.

The waiter has returned with the champagne, which he proceeds to open with an understated flourish.

Christian holds his champagne flute aloft.

"To Kate and my dear brother, Elliot—congratulations."

We all sip, well, I glug. Hmm, Cristal tastes so good, and I'm reminded of the first time I drank it at Christian's club and later, our eventful elevator journey to the first floor.

Christian frowns at me. "What are you thinking about?" he whispers.

"The first time I drank this champagne."

His frown becomes more quizzical.

"We were at your club." I prompt.

He grins. "Oh yes. I remember." He winks at me.

"Elliot, have you set a date?" Mia pipes up.

Elliot gives his sister an exasperated stare. "I've only just asked Kate, so we'll get back to you on that, 'kay?"

"Oh, make it a Christmas wedding. That would be so romantic, and you'd have no trouble remembering your anniversary." Mia claps her hands.

"I'll take that under advisement." Elliot smirks at her.

"After the champagne, can we please go clubbing?" Mia turns and gives Christian her biggest, brown-eyed look.

"I think we should ask Elliot and Kate what they'd like to do."

As one, we turn expectantly to them. Elliot shrugs and Kate turns puce. Her carnal intent toward her fiancé is so clear I nearly spit four-hundred-dollar champagne all over the table.

Zax is the most exclusive nightclub in Aspen—or so says Mia. Christian strolls to the front of the short line with his arm wrapped around my waist and is immediately granted access. I wonder briefly if he owns the place. I glance at my watch—eleven thirty in the evening, and I'm feeling fuzzy. The two glasses of champagne and several glasses of Pouilly-Fumé during our meal are starting to have an effect, and I'm grateful Christian has his arm around me.

"Mr. Grey, welcome back," says a very attractive, leggy blonde in black satin, hot pants, matching sleeveless shirt, and a little red bowtie. She smiles broadly, revealing perfect all-American teeth between scarlet lips that match her bowtie.

"Max will take your coat."

A young man dressed entirely in black, fortunately not satin, smiles as he offers to take my coat. His dark eyes are warm and inviting. I am the only one wearing a coat—Christian insisted I take Mia's trench coat to cover my behind—so Max only has to deal with me.

"Nice coat," he says, gazing at me intently.

Beside me Christian bristles and fixes Max with a back-off-now glare. He reddens and quickly hands Christian my coat check ticket.

"Let me show you to your table." Miss Satin Hot Pants flutters her eyelashes at my husband, flicks her long blond hair, and sashays through the entryway. I tighten my grip around Christian, and he gazes down at me questioningly for a moment, then smirks as we follow Miss Satin Hot Pants into the bar.

The lighting is muted, the walls are black, and the furnishings deep red.

There are booths flanking two sides of the walls and a large U-shaped bar in the middle. It's busy, given that we're here off-season, but not too crowded with the well-heeled of Aspen out for a good time on a Saturday night. The dress code is relaxed, and for the first time I feel a little over . . . um, underdressed. I'm not sure which. The floor and walls vibrate with the music pulsing from the dance floor behind the bar, and lights are whirling and flashing on and off. In my heady state, I idly think it's an epileptic's nightmare.

Satin Hot Pants leads us to a corner booth that's been roped off. It's near the bar with access to the dance floor. Clearly the best seats in the house.

"There'll be someone along to take your order shortly." She gives us her full megawatt smile and, with a final flutter of eyelashes at my husband, sashays back from where she came. Mia is already jigging from foot to foot, itching to get onto the dance floor, and Ethan takes pity on her.

"Champagne?" Christian asks as they head off holding hands toward the dance floor. Ethan gives him a thumbs-up and Mia nods enthusiastically.

Kate and Elliot sit back on the soft velvet seating, hand in hand. They look so happy, their features soft and radiant in the glow from the tea lights flickering in crystal holders on the low table. Christian gestures for me to sit, and I scoot in beside Kate. He takes a seat beside me and anxiously scans the room.

"Show me your ring." I raise my voice over the music. I will be hoarse by the time we leave. Kate beams at me and holds up her hand. The ring is exquisite, a single solitaire in a fine elaborate claw with tiny diamonds on either side. It has a retro Victorian look to it.

"It's beautiful."

She nods in delight and, reaching over, squeezes Elliot's thigh. He leans down and kisses her.

"Get a room," I call out.

Elliot grins.

A young woman with short dark hair and a mischievous smile, wearing regulation, black satin, hot pants, comes to take our order.

"What do you want to drink?" Christian asks.

"You're not picking up the tab for this, too," Elliot grumbles.

"Don't start that shit, Elliot," Christian says mildly.

Despite the objections of Kate, Elliot and Ethan, Christian has paid for the meal we just consumed. He simply waved them aside and would not hear of anyone else paying. I gaze at him lovingly. My Fifty Shades . . . always in control.

Elliot opens his mouth to say something but, wisely perhaps, closes it again.

"I'll have a beer," he says.

"Kate?" Christian asks.

"More champagne, please. The Cristal is delicious. But I'm sure Ethan would prefer a beer." She smiles sweetly— yes, sweetly—at Christian. She is incandescent with happiness. I feel it radiating off her, and it's a pleasure to bask in her joy.

"Ana?"

"Champagne, please."

"Bottle of Cristal, three Peronis, and a bottle of iced mineral water, six glasses," he says in his usual authoritative, no-nonsense manner.

It's kinda hot.

"Thank you, sir. Coming right up." Miss Hot Pants Number Two gives him a gracious smile, but he's spared the fluttering of eyelashes though her cheeks redden a little.

I shake my head in resignation. He's mine, girlfriend.

"What?" he asks me.

"She didn't flutter her eyelashes at you." I smirk.

"Oh. Was she supposed to?" he asks, failing to hide his mirth.

"Women usually do." My tone is ironic.

He grins. "Mrs. Grey, are you jealous?"

"Not in the slightest." I pout at him. And I realize in that moment that I am beginning to tolerate women ogling my husband. Almost. Christian clasps my hand and kisses my knuckles.

"You have nothing to be jealous of, Mrs. Grey," he murmurs close to my ear, his breath tickling me.

"I know."

"Good."

The waitress returns, and moments later I'm sipping another glass of champagne.

"Here." Christian hands me a glass of water. "Drink this."

I frown at him and see, rather than hear, his sigh.

"Three glasses of white wine at dinner and two of champagne, after a strawberry daiquiri and two glasses of Frascati at lunchtime. Drink. Now, Ana."

How does he know about the cocktails this afternoon? I scowl at him. But actually he does have a point. Taking the glass of water, I down it in a most unladylike manner to register my protest at being told what to do . . . again. I wipe my hand across the back of my mouth.

"Good girl," he says, smirking. "You've vomited on me once already. I don't wish to experience that again in a hurry."

"I don't know what you're complaining about. You got to sleep with me."

He smiles and his eyes soften. "Yeah, I did."

Ethan and Mia are back.

"Ethan's had enough, for now. Come on, girls. Let's hit the floor. Strike a pose, throw some shapes, work off the calories from the chocolate mousse."

Kate stands immediately. "Coming?" she asks Elliot.

"Let me watch you," he says. And I have to look away quickly, blushing at the look he gives her. She grins as I stand.

"I'm going to burn some calories," I say, and leaning down I whisper in Christian's ear, "You can watch me."

"Don't bend over," he growls.

"Okay." I stand abruptly. Whoa! Head rush, and I clutch Christian's shoulder as the room shifts and tilts a little.

"Perhaps you should have some more water," Christian murmurs, a warning clear in his voice.

"I'm fine. These seats are low and my heels are high."

Kate takes my hand, and taking a deep breath I follow her and Mia, perfectly poised, onto the dance floor.

The music is pulsing, a techno beat with a thumping bass line. The dance floor isn't crowded, which means we have some space. The mix is eclect-ic—young and old alike dancing the night away. I have never been a good dancer.

In fact, it's only since I've been with Christian that I dance at all. Kate hugs me.

"I'm so happy," she shouts over the music, and she starts to dance. Mia is doing what Mia does, grinning at the pair of us, throwing herself around. Jeez, she's taking up a lot of room on the dance floor. I glance back toward the table. Our men are watching us. I start to move. It's a pulsing rhythm. I close my eyes and surrender to it.

I open my eyes to find the dance floor filling up. Kate, Mia and I are forced closer together. And to my surprise I find I'm actually enjoying myself. I begin to move a little more . . . bravely. Kate gives me two thumbs up, and I beam back at her.

I close my eyes. Why did I spend the first twenty years of my life not doing this? I chose reading over dancing. Jane Austen didn't have great music to move to and Thomas Hardy . . . jeez, he'd have felt guilty as sin that he wasn't dancing with his first wife. I giggle at the thought.

It's Christian. He has given me this confidence in my body and how I can move it.

Suddenly, there are two hands on my hips. I grin. Christian has joined me. I wiggle, and his hands move to my behind and squeeze, then back to my hips.

I open my eyes. And Mia is gaping at me in horror. Shit . . . Am I that bad? I reach down to hold Christian's hands. They're hairy. Fuck! They're not his. I whirl around, and towering over me is a blond giant with more teeth than is natural and a leering smile to showcase them.

"Get your hands off me!" I scream over the pounding music, apoplectic with rage.

"Come on, sugar, it's just some fun." He smiles, holding his apelike hands up, his blue eyes gleaming under the pulsing ultraviolet lights.

Before I know what I'm doing, I slap him hard across the face.

Ow! Shit . . . my hand. It stings. "Get away from me!" I shout. He gazes down at me, cupping his red cheek. I thrust my uninjured hand in front of his face, spreading my fingers to show him my rings.

"I'm married, you asshole!"

He shrugs rather arrogantly and gives me a halfhearted, apologetic smile.

I glance around frantically. Mia is at my right, glaring at Blond Giant. Kate is lost in the moment doing her thing. Christian is not at the table. Oh, I hope he's gone to the restroom. I step back into a front I know well. Oh shit. Christian puts his arm around my waist and moves me to his side.

"Keep your fucking hands off my wife," he says. He's not shouting, but somehow he can be heard over the music.

Holy shit!

"She can take care of herself," Blond Giant shouts. His hand moves from his cheek where I've slapped him, and Christian hits him. It's like I'm watching it in slow motion. A perfectly timed punch to the chin that moves at such speed, but with so little wasted energy, Blond Giant doesn't see it coming. He crumples to the floor like the scumbag he is.

Fuck.

"Christian, no!" I gasp in panic, standing in front of him to hold him back.

Shit, he'll kill him. "I already hit him," I shout over the music. Christian doesn't look at me. He's glaring at my assailant with a malevolence I've not seen before flaring in his eyes. Well, maybe once before after Jack Hyde made a pass at me.

The other dancers move outward like a ripple in a pond, clearing space around us, keeping a safe distance. Blond Giant scrambles to his feet as Elliot joins us.

Oh no! Kate is with me, gaping at all of us. Elliot grasps Christian's arm as Ethan appears, too.

"Take it easy, okay? Didn't mean any harm." Blond Giant holds his hands up in defeat, beating a hasty retreat. Christian's eyes follow him off the dance floor.

He does not look at me.

The song changes from the explicit lyrics of "Sexy Bitch" to a pulsing techno dance number where a woman sings with an impassioned voice. Elliot looks down at me, then across at Christian, and releasing Christian, pulls Kate into a dance. I put my arms around Christian's neck until he finally makes eye contact, his eyes still blazing—primal and feral. A glimpse of a brawling adolescent. Holy shit.

He scrutinizes my face. "Are you okay?" he asks finally.

"Yes." I rub my palm, trying to dispel the sting, and bring my hands down to his chest. My hand is throbbing. I have never slapped anyone before. What possessed me? Touching me wasn't the worst crime against humanity. Was it?

Yet deep down I know why I hit him. It's because I instinctively knew how Christian would react seeing some stranger pawing me. I knew he'd lose his precious self-control. And the thought that some stupid nobody could derail my husband, my love, well, it makes me mad. Really mad.

"Do you want to sit down?" Christian asks over the pulsing beat.

Oh, come back to me, please.

"No. Dance with me."

He looks at me impassively, saying nothing.

Touch me . . . the woman sings.

"Dance with me." He's still mad. "Dance. Christian, please." I take his hands.

Christian glares after the guy, but I start to move against him, weaving myself around him.

The throng of dancers has circled us once more, although there's now a two-foot exclusion zone around us.

"You hit him?" Christian asks, standing stock-still. I take his fisted hands.

"Of course I did. I thought it was you, but his hands were hairier. Please dance with me."

As Christian gazes at me, the fire in his eyes slowly changes, evolves into something else, something darker, something hotter. Suddenly, he grabs my wrists and pulls me flush against him, pinning my hands behind my back.

"You wanna dance? Let's dance," he growls close to my ear, and as he rolls his hips around into me, I can do nothing but follow, his hands holding mine against my backside.

Oh . . . Christian can move, really move. He keeps me close, not letting me go, but his hands gradually relax on mine, freeing me. My hands creep around, up his arms, feeling his bunched muscles through his jacket, up to his shoulders. He presses me against him, and I follow his moves as he slowly, sensually dances with me in time to the pulsing beat of the club music.

The moment he grabs my hand and spins me first one way, then the other, I know he's back with me. I grin. He grins.

We dance together and it's liberating—fun. His anger forgotten, or suppressed, he whirls me around with consummate skill in our small space on the dance floor, never letting go. He makes me graceful, that's his skill. He makes me sexy, because that's what he is. He makes me feel loved, because in spite of his fifty shades, he has a wealth of love to give. Watching him now, enjoying himself . . . one could be forgiven for thinking he doesn't have a care in the world.

But I know his love is clouded with issues of overprotectiveness and control, but it doesn't make me love him any less.

I am breathless when the song morphs to another.

"Can we sit?" I gasp.

"Sure." He leads me off the dance floor.

"You've made me rather hot and sweaty," I whisper as we return to the table.

He pulls me into his arms. "I like you hot and sweaty. Though I prefer to make you hot and sweaty in private," he purrs, and a lascivious smile tugs at his lips.

As I sit, it's as if the incident on the dance floor never happened. I'm vaguely surprised we haven't been thrown out. I glance around the bar. No one is looking at us, and I can't see Blond Giant. Maybe he left, or maybe he's been thrown out.

Kate and Elliot are being indecent on the dance floor, Ethan and Mia less so. I take another sip of champagne.

"Here." Christian puts another glass of water before me and regards me intently. His expression is expectant— drink it. Drink it now.

I do as I'm told. Besides, I'm thirsty.

He lifts a bottle of Peroni from the ice bucket on the table and takes a long drink.

"What if there had been press here?" I ask.

Christian knows immediately that I'm referring to him knocking Blond Giant on his ass.

"I have expensive lawyers," he says coolly, all at once arrogance personified.

I frown at him. "But you're not above the law, Christian. I did have the situation under control."

His eyes frost. "No one touches what's mine," he says with chilling finality, as if I'm missing the obvious.

Oh . . . I take another sip of my champagne. All of a sudden I feel overwhelmed. The music is loud, pounding, my head and feet are aching, and I feel woozy.He grasps my hand. "Come, let's go. I want to get you home," he says.

Kate and Elliot join us.

"You going?" Kate asks and her voice is hopeful.

"Yes," Christian says.

"Good, we'll come with you."

As we wait at the coat check for Christian to retrieve my trench coat, Kate quizzes me.

"What happened with that guy on the dance floor?"

"He was feeling me up."

"I opened my eyes and you'd hit him."

I shrug. "Well, I knew Christian would go thermonuclear, and that could potentially ruin your evening." I haven't really processed how I feel about Christian's behavior. I was worried that it would be worse.

"Our evening," she clarifies. "He is rather hot-headed, isn't he?" Kate adds dryly, staring at Christian as he collects my coat.

I snort and smile. "You could say that."

"I think you handle him well."

"Handle?" I frown. Do I handle Christian?

"Here." Christian holds my coat open for me so that I can put it on.

"Wake up, Ana." Christian is shaking me gently. We've arrived back at the house.

Reluctantly I open my eyes and stagger from the minivan. Kate and Elliot have disappeared, and Taylor is standing patiently beside the vehicle.

"Do I need to carry you?" Christian asks.

I shake my head.

"I'll fetch Miss Grey and Mr. Kavanagh," Taylor says.

Christian nods then leads me to the front door. My feet are throbbing, and I stumble after him. At the front door he bends down, grasps my ankle, and gently pries off first one shoe, then the other. Oh, the relief. He straightens and gazes down at me, holding my Manolos.

"Better?" he asks, amused.

I nod.

"I had delightful visions of these around my ears," he murmurs, staring down wistfully at my shoes. He shakes his head and, taking my hand once more, leads me through the darkened house, and up the stairs to our bedroom.

"You're wrecked, aren't you?" he says softly, staring down at me.

I nod. He starts to unbuckle the belt on my trench coat.

"I'll do it," I mutter, making a halfhearted attempt to brush him off.

"Let me."

I sigh. I had no idea I was this tired.

"It's the altitude. You're not used to it. And the drinking, of course." He smirks, divests me of my coat, and throws it on one of the bedroom chairs. Taking my hand, he leads me into the bathroom. Why are we going in here?

"Sit," he says.

I sit on the chair and close my eyes. I hear him as he messes around with bottles on the vanity unit. I am too tired to open my eyes to find out what he's doing. A moment later he tips my head back, and I open my eyes in surprise.

"Eyes closed," Christian says . Holy crap, he's holding a cotton ball! Gently, he wipes it over my right eye. I sit stunned as he methodically removes my makeup.

"Ah. There's the woman I married," he says after a few wipes.

"You don't like makeup?"

"I like it well enough, but I prefer what's beneath it." He kisses my forehead.

"Here. Take these." He puts some Advil into my palm and hands me a glass of water.

I look and pout.

"Take them," he orders.

I roll my eyes, but do as I'm told.

"Good. Do you need a private moment?" he asks sardonically.

I snort. "So coy, Mr. Grey. Yes, I need to pee."

He laughs. "You expect me to leave?"

I giggle. "You want to stay?"

He cocks his head to one side, his expression amused.

"You are one kinky son of a bitch. Out. I don't want you to watch me pee.

That's a step too far." I stand and wave him out of the bathroom.

When I emerge from the bathroom, he's changed into his pajama bottoms.

Hmm . . . Christian in PJs. Mesmerized, I gaze at his abdomen, his muscles, his happy trail. It's distracting. He strides over to me.

"Enjoying the view?" he asks wryly.

"Always."

"I think you're slightly drunk, Mrs. Grey."

"I think, for once, I have to agree with you, Mr. Grey."

"Let me help you out of what little there is of this dress. It really should come with a health warning." He turns me around and undoes the single button at the neck.

"You were so mad," I murmur.

"Yes. I was."

"At me?"

"No. Not at you." He kisses my shoulder. "For once."

I smile. Not mad at me. This is progress. "Makes a nice change."

"Yes. It does." He kisses my other shoulder then tugs my dress down over my backside and onto the floor. He removes my panties at the same time, leaving me naked. Reaching up, he takes my hand.

"Step," he commands, and I step out of the dress, holding his hand for balance.

He stands and tosses my dress and panties onto the chair with Mia's trench coat.

"Arms up," he says softly. He slips his T-shirt over me and pulls it down, covering me up. I am ready for bed.

He pulls me into his arms and kisses me, my minty breath mingling with his.

"As much as I'd love to bury myself in you, Mrs. Grey—you've had too much to drink, you're at nearly eight thousand feet, and you didn't sleep well last night. Come. Get into bed." He pulls back the duvet and I climb in. He covers me up and kisses my forehead once more.

"Close your eyes. When I come back to bed, I'll expect you to be asleep." It's a threat, a command . . . it's Christian.

"Don't go," I plead.

"I have some calls to make, Ana."

"It's Saturday. It's late. Please."

He runs his hands through his hair. "Ana, if I come to bed with you now, you won't get any rest. Sleep." He's adamant. I close my eyes and his lips brush my forehead once more.

"Goodnight, baby," he breathes.

Images of the day flash through my mind . . . Christian hauling me over his shoulder in the plane. His anxiety as to whether or not I'd like the house. Making love this afternoon. The bath. His reaction to my dress. Decking Blond Giant—my palm tingles at the memory. And then Christian putting me to bed.

Who would have thought? I grin widely, the word progress running around my brain as I drift.

Chapter Fifteen

I am too warm. Christian warm. His head is on my shoulder, and he's breathing softly on my neck while he sleeps, his legs threaded through mine, his arm around my waist. I linger on the edge of consciousness, aware that if I wake fully I'll wake him, too, and he doesn't sleep enough. Hazily my mind wanders through the events of yesterday evening. I drank too much—boy did I drink too much. I'm amazed Christian let me. I smile as I remember him putting me to bed. That was sweet, real sweet, and unexpected. I conduct a quick mental inventory of how I'm feeling. Stomach? Fine. Head? Surprisingly, fine, but fuzzy. My palm is still red from last night. Sheesh. Idly I think about Christian's palms when he's spanked me. I squirm and he wakes.

"What's wrong?" Sleepy gray eyes search mine.

"Nothing. Good morning." I run the fingers of my uninjured hand through his hair.

"Mrs. Grey, you look lovely this morning," he says, kissing my cheek, and I light up from within.

"Thank you for taking care of me last night."

"I like taking care of you. It's what I want to do," he says quietly, but his eyes betray him as triumph flares in their gray depths. It's like he's won the World Series or the Super Bowl.

Oh, my Fifty.

"You make me feel cherished."

"That's because you are," he murmurs and my heart clenches.

He clasps my hand and I wince. He releases me immediately, alarmed. "The punch?" he asks. His eyes frost as he scrutinizes mine, and his voice is laced with sudden anger.

"I slapped him. I didn't punch him."

"That fucker!"

I thought we'd dealt with this last night.

"I can't bear that he touched you."

"He didn't hurt me, he was just inappropriate. Christian, I'm okay. My hand's a little red, that's all. Surely you know what that's like?" I smirk, and his expression changes to one of amused surprise.

"Why, Mrs. Grey, I am very familiar with that." His lips twist in amusement.

"I could reacquaint myself with that feeling this minute, should you so wish."

"Oh, stow your twitching palm, Mr. Grey." I stroke his face with my injured hand, my fingers caressing his sideburn. Gently I tug the little hairs. It distracts him, and he takes my hand and plants a tender kiss in my palm. Miraculously, the pain disappears.

"Why didn't you tell me this hurt last night?"

"Um . . . I didn't really feel it last night. It's okay now."

His eyes soften and his mouth twists. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than I deserve."

"That's quite a right arm you have there, Mrs. Grey."

"You'd do well to remember that, Mr. Grey."

"Oh really?" He rolls suddenly so that he's fully on top of me, pressing me into the mattress, holding my wrists above my head. He gazes down at me.

"I'd fight you any day, Mrs. Grey. In fact, subduing you in bed is a fantasy of mine." He kisses my throat.

What?

"I thought you subdued me all the time." I gasp as he nibbles my earlobe.

"Hmm . . . but I'd like some resistance," he murmurs, his nose skirting my jaw.

Resistance? I still. He stops, releasing my hands, and leans up on his elbows.

"You want me to fight you? Here?" I whisper, trying to contain my surprise.

Okay—my shock. He nods, his eyes hooded but wary as he gauges my reaction.

"Now?"

He shrugs, and I see the idea flit through his mind. He gives me his shy smile and nods again, slowly.

Oh my . . . He's tense, lying on top of me, and his growing erection is digging tantalizingly into my soft, willing flesh, distracting me. What's this about? Brawling? Fantasy? Will he hurt me? My inner goddess shakes her head— Never. She's got her karate suit on, and she's limbering up. Claude would be pleased.

"Is this what you meant about coming to bed angry?"

He nods once more, his eyes still wary.

Hmm . . . my Fifty wants to rumble.

"Don't bite your lip," he warns.

Compliantly, I release my lip. "I think you have me at a disadvantage, Mr.

Grey." I bat my lashes and squirm provocatively beneath him. This could be fun.

"Disadvantage?"

"Surely you've already got me where you want me?"

He smirks and presses his groin into mine once more.

"Good point well made, Mrs. Grey," he whispers and quickly kisses my lips.

Abruptly he shifts and takes me with him, rolling over so I'm straddling him. I grab his hands, pinning them to the side of his head, and ignore the protesting ache from my hand. My hair falls in a chestnut veil around us, and I move my head so that the strands tickle his face. He jerks his face away but doesn't try to stop me.

"So, you want to play rough?" I ask, skimming my crotch over his.

His mouth opens and he inhales sharply.

"Yes." He hisses, and I release him.

"Wait." I reach over for the glass of water beside the bed. Christian must have left it here. It's cool and sparkling—too cool to have been sitting here for long—and I wonder when he came to bed.

As I take a long draught, Christian trails his fingers in small circles up my thighs, leaving tingling skin in their wake before he cups and squeezes my naked behind. Hmm.

Taking a leaf from his impressive repertoire, I lean forward and kiss him, pouring clear cool water into his mouth.

He drinks. "Very tasty, Mrs. Grey," he murmurs, sporting a boyish and playful grin.

After placing the glass back on the bedside table, I remove his hands from my backside and pin them by his head once more.

"So I'm supposed to be unwilling?" I smirk.

"Yes."

"I'm not much of an actress."

He grins. "Try."

I lean down and kiss him chastely. "Okay, I'll play," I whisper, trailing my teeth along his jaw, feeling his prickly stubble beneath my teeth and my tongue.

Christian makes a low, sexy sound in his throat and moves, tossing me onto the bed beside him. I cry out in surprise, then he's on top of me, and I start to struggle as he makes a grab for my hands. Roughly, I place my hands on his chest, pushing with all my might, trying to move him, while he endeavors to pry my legs apart with his knee.

I continue pushing at his chest— Jeez he's heavy—but he doesn't flinch, doesn't freeze as he once might have. He's enjoying this! He attempts to grab my wrists, and finally captures one, despite my valiant attempts to twist it free. It's my sore hand, so I surrender it to him, but grab his hair with my other hand and pull hard.

"Ah!" He yanks his head free and gazes down at me, his eyes wild and carnal.

"Savage," he whispers, his voice laced with salacious delight.

In response to this one whispered word, my libido explodes, and I stop acting. Again I struggle in vain to wrest my hand out of his hold. At the same time I try to hook my ankles together, and attempt to buck him off me. He's too heavy.

Gah! It's frustrating and hot.

With a groan, Christian captures my other hand. He holds both my wrists in his left hand, and his right travels leisurely—insolently, almost—down my body, fondling and feeling as it goes, tweaking my nipple on the way.

I yelp in response, pleasure spiking short, sharp, and hot from my nipple to my groin. I make another fruitless attempt to buck him off, but he's just too on me.

When he tries to kiss me I jerk my head to the side so he can't. Promptly his insolent hand moves from the hem of my T-shirt up to my chin, holding me in place as he runs his teeth along my jaw, mirroring what I did to him earlier.

"Oh, baby, fight me," he murmurs.

I twist and writhe, trying to free myself from his merciless hold, but it's hopeless. He's much stronger than me. He's gently biting at my lower lip as his tongue tries to invade my mouth. And I realize I don't want to resist him. I want him—now, like I always do. I stop fighting and fervently return his kiss. I don't care that I haven't brushed my teeth. I don't care that we're supposed to be playing some game. Desire, hot and hard, surges through my bloodstream, and I'm lost. Unhooking my ankles, I wrap my legs around his hips and use my heels to push his pajamas down over his behind.

"Ana," he breathes, and he kisses me everywhere. And we're no longer wrestling, but all hands and tongues and touch and taste, quick and urgent.

"Skin," he murmurs hoarsely, his breathing labored. He drags me up and tugs off my T-shirt in one swift move.

"You," I whisper while I'm upright, because it's all I can think of to say. I seize the front his pajamas and yank them down, freeing his erection. I grab and squeeze him. He's hard. The air whistles through his teeth as he inhales sharply, and I revel in his response.

"Fuck," he murmurs. He leans back, lifting my thighs, tipping me down onto the bed as I pull and squeeze him tightly, running my hand up and down him.

Feeling a bead of moisture on his tip, I swirl it around with my thumb. As he lowers me to the mattress, I slip my thumb in my mouth to taste him while his hands travel up my body, caressing my hips, my stomach, my breasts.

"Taste good?" he asks as he hovers over me, eyes blazing.

"Yes. Here." I push my thumb into his mouth, and he sucks and bites the pad.

I groan, grasp his head, and pull him down to me so I can kiss him. Wrapping my legs around him, I push his pajamas off his legs with my feet, then cradle him with my legs around his waist. His lips trail from across my jaw to my chin, nipping softly.

"You're so beautiful." He dips his head lower to the base of my throat. "Such beautiful skin." His breath is soft as his lips glide down to my breasts.

What? I am panting, confused—wanting, now waiting. I thought this was going to be quick.

"Christian." I hear the quiet plea in my voice and reach down, fisting my hands in his hair.

"Hush," he whispers and circles my nipple with his tongue before pulling it into his mouth and tugging hard.

"Ah!" I moan and squirm, tilting my pelvis up to tempt him. He grins against my skin and turns his attention to my other breast.

"Impatient, Mrs. Grey?" He then sucks hard on my nipple. I tug his hair. He groans and peers up. "I'll restrain you," he warns.

"Take me," I beg.

"All in good time," he murmurs against my skin. His hand travels down at an infuriatingly slow speed to my hip as he worships my nipple with his mouth. I moan loudly, my breath short and shallow, and I try once more to entice him into me, rocking against him. He's thick and heavy and close, but he's taking his own sweet leisurely time with me.

Fuck this. I struggle and twist, determined to buck him off me again.

"What the—"

Grabbing my hands, Christian pins them down on the bed, my arms spread wide, and rests his full bodyweight on me, completely subduing me. I am breathless, wild.

"You wanted resistance," I say, panting. He rears up over me and gazes down, his hands still locked around my wrists. I place my heels under his behind and push. He doesn't move. Gah!

"You don't want to play nice?" he asks astonished, his eyes alight with excitement.

"I just want you to make love to me, Christian." Could he be any more obtuse? First we're fighting and wrestling then he's all tender and sweet. It's confusing. I'm in bed with Mr. Mercurial.

"Please." I press my heels against his backside once more. Burning gray eyes search mine. Oh, what is he thinking? He looks momentarily bewildered and confused. He releases my hands and sits back on his heels, pulling me into his lap.

"Okay, Mrs. Grey, we'll do this your way." He lifts me up and slowly lowers me on to him so I'm straddling him.

"Ah!" This is it. This is what I want. This is what I need. Curling my arms around his neck, I twist my fingers in his hair, glorying in the feeling of him inside me. I start to move. Taking control, taking him at my pace, at my speed. He moans, and his lips find mine, and we're lost.

I trail my fingers through the hair on Christian's chest. He lies on his back, still and quiet beside me as we both catch our breath. His hand thrums rhythmically down my back.

"You're quiet," I whisper and kiss his shoulder. He turns and looks at me, his expression giving nothing away. "That was fun." Shit, is something wrong?

"You confound me, Mrs. Grey."

"Confound you?"

He shifts so that we're face to face. "Yes. You. Calling the shots. It's . . . different."

"Good different or bad different?" I trail a finger over his lips. His brow furrows, as if he doesn't quite understand the question. Absentmindedly, he kisses my finger.

"Good different," he says, but he doesn't sound convinced.

"You've never indulged this little fantasy before?" I blush as I say it. Do I really want to know any more about my husband's colorful . . . um, kaleidoscopic sex life before me? My subconscious eyes me warily over her tortoiseshell half-moon specs. Do you really want to go there?

"No, Anastasia. You can touch me." It's a simple explanation that speaks volumes. Of course, the fifteen couldn't.

"Mrs. Robinson could touch you." I murmur the words before my brain registers what I've said. Shit. Why did I mention her?

He stills. His eyes widen with his oh-no-where's-she-going-with-this expression. "That was different," he whispers.

Suddenly I want to know. "Good different or bad different?"

He gazes at me. Doubt and possibly pain flit across his face, and fleetingly he looks like a man drowning.

"Bad, I think." His words are barely audible.

Holy shit!

"I thought you liked it."

"I did. At the time."

"Not now?"

He gazes at me, eyes wide, then slowly shakes his head.

Oh my . . . "Oh, Christian." I'm overwhelmed by the feelings that swamp me.

My lost boy. I launch myself at him and kiss his face, his throat, his chest, his little round scars. He groans, pulls me to him, and kisses me passionately. And very slowly, and tenderly, at his pace, he makes love to me once more.

"Ana Tyson. Punching above your weight!" Ethan applauds as I head into the kitchen for breakfast. He's sitting with Mia, and Kate at the breakfast bar while Mrs.

Bentley cooks waffles. Christian is nowhere to be seen.

"Good morning, Mrs. Grey." Mrs. Bentley smiles. "What would you like for breakfast?"

"Good Morning. Whatever's going, thank you. Where's Christian?"

"Outside." Kate gestures with her head toward the backyard. I wander over to the window that looks out over the yard and the mountains beyond. It's a clear, powder-blue summer day, and my beautiful husband is about twenty feet away in deep discussion with some guy.

"That's Mr. Bentley he's talking to," calls Mia from the breakfast bar. I turn to look at her, distracted by her sulky tone. She looks venomously at Ethan. Oh dear. I wonder once more what's going on between them. Frowning, I turn my attention back to my husband and Mr. Bentley.

Mrs. Bentley's husband is fair-haired, dark eyed and wiry, dressed in work pants and an Aspen Fire Department T-shirt. Christian is dressed in his black jeans and T-shirt. As the two men amble across the lawn toward the house lost in their conversation, Christian casually bends to pick up what looks like a bamboo cane that must have been blown over or discarded in the flowerbed. Pausing, Christian absentmindedly holds out the cane at arm's length as if weighing it carefully and swipes it through the air, just once.

Oh . . .

Mr. Bentley appears to see nothing odd in his behavior. They continue their discussion, nearer to the house this time, then pause once more, and Christian repeats the gesture. The tip of the cane hits the ground. Glancing up, Christian sees me standing at the window. Suddenly I feel as if I'm spying on him. He stops. I give him an embarrassed wave then turn and walk back to the breakfast bar.

"What were you doing?" asks Kate.

"Just watching Christian."

"You have got it bad." She snorts.

"And you don't, oh soon-to-be sister-in-law?" I reply, grinning and trying to bury the disquieting visual of Christian wielding a cane. I am startled when Kate leaps up and hugs me.

"Sister!" she exclaims, and it's hard not to be swept up in her joy.

"Hey, sleepyhead." Christian wakes me. "We're about to land. Buckle up."
  
I fumble sleepily for my seat belt, but Christian fastens it for me. He kisses my forehead before settling back into his seat. I lean my head on his shoulder again and close my eyes.

An impossibly long hike and a picnic lunch on top of a spectacular mountain have exhausted me. The rest of our party is quiet, too—even Mia. She looks despondent, as she has all day. I wonder how her campaign with Ethan is going. I don't even know where they slept last night. My eyes catch hers, and I give a small are-you-okay smile. She gives me a brief sad smile in return and goes back to her book. I peek up at Christian through my lashes. He's working on a contract or something, reading it through and annotating the margins. But he seems relaxed. Elliot is snoring softly beside Kate.

I have yet to corner Elliot and quiz him about Gia, but it's been impossible to pry him away from Kate. Christian isn't interested enough to ask, which is irritating, but I haven't pressed him. We've been enjoying ourselves too much. Elliot rests his hand possessively on Kate's knee. She looks radiant, and to think that only yesterday afternoon she was so unsure of him. What did Christian call him?

Lelliot. Perhaps that's a family nickname? It was sweet, better than manwhore.

Abruptly, Elliot opens his eyes and gazes straight at me. I blush, caught staring.

He grins. "I sure love your blush, Ana," he teases, stretching. Kate gives me her self-satisfied, cat-ate-the-canary smile.

Officer Beighley announces our approach to Sea-Tac, and Christian clasps my hand.

"How was your weekend, Mrs. Grey?" Christian asks once we're in the Audi heading back to Escala. Taylor and Ryan are up front.
  
"Good, thank you." I smile, feeling shy all of a sudden.

"We can go anytime. Take anyone you wish to take."

"We should take Ray. He'd like the fishing."

"That's a good idea."

"How was it for you?" I ask.

"Good," he says after a moment, surprised by my question, I think. "Real good."

"You seemed to relax."

He shrugs. "I knew you were safe."

I frown. "Christian, I'm safe most of the time. I've told you before, you'll keel over at forty if you keep up this level of anxiety. And I want to grow old and gray with you." I grasp his hand. He looks at me as if he can't comprehend what I'm saying. He gently kisses my knuckles and changes the subject.

"How's your hand?"

"It's better, thank you."

He smiles. "Very good, Mrs. Grey. You ready to face Gia again?"

Oh crap. I'd forgotten we were seeing her this evening to go over the final plans. I roll my eyes. "I might want to keep you out of the way, keep you safe." I smirk.

"Protecting me?" Christian is laughing at me.

"As ever, Mr. Grey. From all sexual predators," I whisper.

Christian is brushing his teeth when I crawl into bed. Tomorrow we go back to reality—back to work, the paparazzi, and to Jack in custody but with the possibility that he has an accomplice. Hmm . . . Christian was vague about that. Does he know? And if he did know, would he tell me? I sigh. Getting information out of Christian is like pulling teeth, and we've had such a lovely weekend. Do I want to ruin the feel-good moment by trying to drag the information out of him?

It's been a revelation to see him out of his normal environment, outside this apartment, relaxed and happy with his family. I wonder vaguely if it's because we're here in this apartment with all its memories and associations that he gets wound up. Maybe we should move.

I snort. We are moving—we're having a huge house refurbished on the coast.

Gia's plans are complete and approved, and Elliot's team starts building next week. I chuckle as I recall Gia's shocked expression when I told her that I'd seen her in Aspen. Turns out it was nothing but co-incidence. She'd camped out at her holiday place to work solely on our plans. For one awful moment I'd thought she'd had a hand in choosing the ring, but apparently not. But I still don't trust Gia. I want to hear the same story from Elliot. At least she kept her distance from Christian this time.

I look out at the night sky. I will miss this view. This panoramic vista . . .

Seattle at our feet, so full of possibilities, yet so far removed. Maybe that's Christian's problem—he's been too isolated from real life for too long, thanks to his self-imposed exile. Yet with his family around him, he is less controlling, less anxious—freer, happier. I wonder what Flynn would make of all that. Holy crap!

Maybe that's the answer. Maybe he needs his own family. I shake my head in denial—we're too young, too new to all this. Christian strides into the room, looking his usual gorgeous but pensive self.

"Everything okay?" I askHe nods distractedly as he climbs into bed.

"I'm not looking forward to going back to reality," I murmur.

"No?"

I shake my head and caress his lovely face. "I had a wonderful weekend.

Thank you."

He smiles softly. "You're my reality, Ana," he murmurs and kisses me.

"Do you miss it?"

"Miss what?" he asks, perplexed.

"You know. The caning . . . and stuff," I whisper, embarrassed.

He stares at me, his gaze impassive. Then doubt crosses his face, his where-is-she-going-with-this look.
  
"No Anastasia, I don't." His voice is steady and quiet. He caresses my cheek.

"Dr. Flynn said something to me when you left, something that's stayed with me.

He said I couldn't be that way if you weren't so inclined. It was a revelation." He stops, and frowns. "I didn't know any other way, Ana. Now I do. It's been educational."

"Me, educate you?" I scoff.

His eyes soften. "Do you miss it?" he asks.

Oh! "I don't want you to hurt me, but I like to play, Christian. You know that. If you wanted to do something . . ." I shrug, gazing at him.

"Something?"

"You know, with a flogger or your crop—" I stop, blushing.

He raises his brow, surprised. "Well . . . we'll see. Right now, I'd like some good old-fashioned vanilla." His thumb skirts my bottom lip, and he kisses me once more.

From: Anastasia Grey

Subject: Good Morning

Date: August 29, 2011 09:14

To: Christian Grey

Mr. Grey

I just wanted to tell you that I love you.

That is all.

Yours Always

A x

Anastasia Grey

Commissioning Editor, SIP

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Banishing Monday Blues

Date: August 29, 2011 09:18

To: Anastasia Grey

Mrs. Grey

What gratifying words to hear from one's wife (errant or not) on a Monday morning.

Let me assure you that I feel exactly the same way.

Sorry about the dinner this evening. I hope it won't be too tedious for you.

x

Christian Grey,

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Oh yes. The American Shipbuilding Association dinner. I roll my eyes . . .

More stuffed shirts. Christian really does take me to the most fascinating functions.

From: Anastasia Grey

Subject: Ships that pass in the night Date: August 29, 2011 09:26

To: Christian Grey

Dear Mr. Grey

I am sure you can think of a way to spice up the dinner . . .

Yours in anticipation

Mrs. G. x

Anastasia (non-errant) Grey

Commissioning Editor, SIP

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Variety is the Spice of Life Date: August 29, 2011 09:35

To: Anastasia Grey

Mrs. Grey

I have a few ideas . . .

x

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Now Impatient for the ASA Dinner Inc.

All the muscles in my belly clench. Hmm . . . I wonder what he'll dream up.

Hannah knocks on the door, interrupting my reverie.

"Ready to go through your schedule for this week, Ana?"

"Sure. Sit." I smile, recovering my equilibrium, and minimize my e-mail program. "I've had to move a couple of appointments. Mr. Fox next week and Dr.—"

My phone rings, interrupting her. It's Roach. He asks me up to his office.

"Can we pick this up in twenty minutes?"

"Of course."

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Last night

Date: August 30, 2011 09:24

To: Anastasia Grey

Was . . . fun.

Who would have thought the ASA annual dinner could be so stimulating?

As ever, you never disappoint, Mrs. Grey.

I love you.

x

Christian Grey

In awe, CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Anastasia Grey

Subject: I love a good ball game . . .

Date: August 30, 2011 09:33

To: Christian Grey

Dear Mr. Grey

I have missed the silver balls.

You never disappoint.

That is all.

Mrs. G. x

Anastasia Grey

Commissioning Editor, SIP

Hannah taps on my door, interrupting my erotic thoughts of the previous evening. Christian's hands . . . his mouth.

"Come in."

"Ana, Mr. Roach's PA just called. He'd like you to attend a meeting this morning. It means I have to move some of your appointments again. Is that okay."

His tongue.

"Sure. Yes," I mutter trying to halt my wayward thoughts. She grins and ducks out of my office . . . leaving me with my delicious memory of last night.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Hyde

Date: September 1, 2011 15:24

To: Anastasia Grey

Anastasia

For your information, Hyde has been refused bail and remanded in custody. He's charged with attempted kidnap and arson. As yet no date has been set for the trial.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Anastasia Grey

Subject: Hyde

Date: September 1, 2011 15:53

To: Christian Grey

That's good news.

Does this mean you'll lighten up on security?

I really don't see eye to eye with Prescott.

Ana x

Anastasia Grey

Commissioning Editor, SIP

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Hyde

Date: September 1, 2011 15:59

To: Anastasia Grey

No. Security will remain in place. No arguments.

What's wrong with Prescott? If you don't like her, we'll replace her.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

I scowl at his high-handed e-mail. Prescott isn't that bad.

From: Anastasia Grey

Subject: Keep your hair on!

Date: September 1, 2011 16:03

To: Christian Grey

I was just asking (rolls eyes). And I'll think about Prescott.

Stow that twitchy palm!

Ana x

Anastasia Grey

Commissioning Editor, SIP

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Don't tempt me.

Date: September 1, 2011 16:11

To: Anastasia Grey

I can assure you, Mrs. Grey, that my hair is very firmly attached—has this not been demonstrated often enough by your good self?

My palm, however, is twitching.

I might do something about that tonight.

x

Christian Grey

Not bald yet CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Anastasia Grey

Subject: Squirm

Date: September 1, 2011 16:20

To: Christian Grey

Promises, promises . . .

Now stop pestering me. I am trying to work; I have an impromptu meeting with an author. Will try not to be distracted by thoughts of you during the meeting.

A x

Anastasia Grey

Commissioning Editor, SIP

From: Anastasia Grey

Subject: Sailing & Soaring & Spanking Date: September 5, 2011 09:18

To: Christian Grey

Husband

You sure know how to show a girl a good time.

I shall of course be expecting this kind of treatment every weekend.

You are spoiling me. I love it.

Your wife

xox

Anastasia Grey

Commissioning Editor, SIP

From: Christian Grey

Subject: My Life's Mission . . .

Date: September 5, 2011 09:25

To: Anastasia Grey

Is to spoil you, Mrs. Grey.

And keep you safe because I love you.

Christian Grey

Smitten CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Oh my. Could he be any more romantic?

From: Anastasia Grey

Subject: My Life's Mission . . .

Date: September 5, 2011 09:33

To: Christian Grey

Is to let you—because I love you, too.

Now stop being so sappy.

You are making me cry.

Anastasia Grey

Equally Smitten Commissioning Editor, SIP

The following day, I gaze at the calendar on my desk. Only five days until September 10—my birthday. I know we are driving out to the house to see how Elliot and his crew are progressing. Hmm . . . I wonder if Christian has any other plans? I smile at the thought. Hannah taps on my door.

"Come in."

Prescott is hovering outside . Odd . . .

"Hi, Ana," says Hannah. "There's a Leila Williams here to see you? She says it's personal."

"Leila Williams? I don't know a . . ." My mouth goes dry, and Hannah's eyes widen at my expression.

Leila? Fuck. What does she want?

Chapter Sixteen

"Do you want me to send her away?" Hannah asks, alarmed at my expression.

"Um, no. Where is she?"

"In reception. She's not alone. She's accompanied by another young woman."

Oh!

"And Miss Prescott wants to talk to you," Hannah adds.

I'm sure she does. "Send her in."

Hannah stands aside, and Prescott enters my office. She's on a mission, bristling with professional efficiency.

"Give me a moment, Hannah. Prescott, take a seat."

Hannah closes the door, leaving Prescott and me alone.

"Mrs. Grey, Leila Williams is on your proscribed list of visitors."

"What?" I have a proscribed list?

"On our watch list, ma'am. Taylor and Welch have been quite specific about not letting her come into contact with you."

I frown, not understanding. "Is she dangerous?"

"I can't say, ma'am."

"Why do I even know that she's here?"

Prescott swallows and for a moment looks awkward. "I was on a restroom break. She came in, spoke directly to Claire, and Claire called Hannah."

"Oh. I see." I realize that even Prescott has to pee, and I laugh. "Oh dear."

"Yes ma'am." Prescott gives me an embarrassed grin, and it's the first time I've seen a chink in her armor. She has a lovely smile.

"I need to talk to Claire about protocol, again," she says, her tone weary.

"Sure. Does Taylor know she's here?" I cross my fingers unconsciously, hoping she hasn't told Christian.

"I left a brief voice message for him."

Oh. "Then I only have a short time. I'd like to know what she wants."

Prescott gazes at me for a moment. "I must advise against it, ma'am."

"She's here to see me for a reason."

"I'm supposed to prevent that, ma'am." Her voice is soft but resigned.

"I really want to hear what she has to say." My tone is more forceful than I intend.

Prescott stifles her sigh. "I'd like to search them both before you do."

"Okay. Can you do that?"

"I'm here to protect you, Mrs. Grey, so yes, I can. I'd also like to stay with you while you talk."

"Okay." I'll grant her this concession. Besides, last time I met Leila, she was armed. "Go ahead."

Prescott rises.

"Hannah," I call.

Hannah opens the door too quickly. She must have been hovering outside.

"Can you check to see if the meeting room is free, please?"

"I already have, and it's good to go."

"rescott, can you search them in there? Is it private enough?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'll be there in five minutes, then. Hannah, show Leila Williams and whomever she's with into the meeting room."

"Will do." Hannah looks anxiously from Prescott to me. "Shall I cancel your next meeting? It's at four, but it's across town."

"Yes," I murmur, distracted. Hannah nods then leaves.

What the hell does Leila want? I don't think she's here to do me any harm.

She didn't in the past when she had the opportunity. Christian is going to go nuts.

My subconscious purses her lips, primly crosses her legs, and nods. I need to tell him that I am doing this. I type a quick e-mail, then pause, checking the time. I feel a momentary pang of regret. We've been getting along so well since Aspen. I press send.

From: Anastasia Grey

Subject: Visitors

Date: September 6, 2011 15:27

To: Christian Grey

Christian

Leila is here to see me. I will see her with Prescott.

I'll use my newly acquired slapping skills with my now healed hand, should I need to.

Try, and I mean try, not to worry.

I am a big girl.

Will call once we've spoken.

A x

Anastasia Grey

Commissioning Editor, SIP

Hurriedly, I hide my BlackBerry in my desk drawer. I stand, smoothing my gray pencil skirt over my hips, pinch my cheeks to give them some color, and undo the next button on my gray silk blouse. Okay, I'm ready. After taking a deep breath, I head out of my office to meet the infamous Leila ignoring "Your Love is King" humming gently from inside my desk.

Leila looks much better. More than better—she's very attractive. There's a rosy bloom to her cheeks, and her brown eyes are bright, her hair clean and shiny.

She's dressed in a pale pink blouse and white pants. She stands as soon as I enter the meeting room, as does her friend—another dark-haired young woman with soft brown eyes, the color of brandy. Prescott hovers in the corner, not taking her eyes off Leila.

"Mrs. Grey, thank you so much for seeing me." Leila's voice is soft but clear.

"Um . . . Sorry about the security," I mutter because I cannot think what else to say. I wave a hand distractedly at Prescott.

"This is my friend, Susi."

"Hi." I nod at Susi. She looks like Leila. She looks like me. Oh, no. Another one.

"Yes," Leila says, as if reading my thoughts. "Susi knows Mr. Grey, too."

What the hell am I supposed to say to that? I give her a polite smile.

"lease, sit," I murmur.

There's a knock on the door. It's Hannah. I motion her in, knowing full well why she's disturbing us.

"Sorry to interrupt, Ana. I have Mr. Grey on the line?"

"Tell him I'm busy."

"He was quite insistent," she says fearfully.

"I am sure he was. Would you apologize to him, and say I'll call him back very shortly?"

Hannah hesitates.

"Hannah, please."

She nods and scurries out of the room. I turn back to the two women sitting in front of me. They are both staring at me in awe. It's uncomfortable.

"What can I do for you?" I ask.

Susi speaks. "I know this is all kinds of weird, but I wanted to meet you, too.

The woman who captured Chris—"

I hold up my hand, stopping her in mid-sentence. I do not want to hear this.

"Um . . . I get the picture," I mutter.

"We call ourselves the sub club." She grins at me, her eyes shining with mirth.

Oh my God.

Leila gasps and gapes at Susi, at once amused and appalled. Susi winces. I suspect Leila's kicked her under the table.

What the hell am I supposed to say to that? I glance nervously at Prescott, who remains impassive, her eyes never leaving Leila.

Susi seems to remember herself. She blushes, then nods and stands. "I'll wait in reception. This is Lulu's show." I can tell she's embarrassed.

Lulu?

"You'll be okay?" she asks Leila, who smiles up at her. Susi gives me a large, open, genuine smile and exits the room.

Susi and Christian . . . it's not a thought I wish to dwell on. Prescott takes her phone out of her pocket and answers it. I didn't hear it ring.

"Mr. Grey," she says. Leila and I turn to look at her. Prescott closes her eyes as if in pain.

"Yes, sir," she says, stepping forward, and hands me the phone.

I roll my eyes. "Christian," I murmur, trying to contain my exasperation. I stand and stride briskly out of the room.

"What the fuck are you playing at?" he shouts. He's seething.

"Don't shout at me."

"What do you mean don't shout at you?" he shouts, louder this time. "I gave specific instructions which you have completely disregarded—again. Hell, Ana, I am fucking furious."

"When you are calmer, we will talk about this."

"Don't you hang up on me," he hisses.

"Good-bye, Christian." I hang up and switch off Prescott's phone.

Holy shit. I don't have long with Leila. Taking a deep breath, I reenter the meeting room. Both Leila and Prescott look up at me expectantly, and I hand Prescott her phone.

"Where were we?" I ask Leila as I sit back down opposite her. Her eyes widen slightly.

Yes. Apparently, I handle him, I want to say to her. But I don't think she wants to hear that.

Leila fiddles nervously with the ends of her hair. "First, I wanted to apologize," she says softly.

Oh . . .

She glances up and registers my surprise. "Yes," she says quickly. "And to thank you for not pressing charges. You know—for your car and in your apartment."

"I know you weren't . . . um, well," I murmur, reeling. I hadn't expected an apology.

"No, I wasn't."

"You're feeling better now?" I ask gently.

"Much. Thank you."

"Does your doctor know you're here?"

She shakes her head.

Oh.

She looks suitably guilty. "I know I'll have to deal with the fallout for this later. But I had to get some things, and I wanted to see Susi, and you, and . . . Mr.

Grey."

"You want to see Christian?" My stomach free-falls to the floor. That's why she's here.

"Yes. I wanted to ask you if that would be okay."

Holy fuck. I gape at her, and I want to tell her that it's not okay. I don't want her anywhere near my husband. Why is she here? To assess the opposition? To unsettle me? Or perhaps she needs this as some sort of closure?

"Leila." I flounder, exasperated. "It's not up to me, it's up to Christian.

You'll need to ask him. He doesn't need my permission. He's a grown man . . . most of the time."

She gazes at me for a fraction of a beat as if surprised by my reaction then laughs softly, nervously twiddling the end of her hair.

"He's repeatedly refused all my requests to see him," she says quietly.

Oh shit. I'm in more trouble than I thought.

"Why is it so important for you to see him?" I ask gently.

"To thank him. I'd be rotting in a stinking prison psychiatric facility if it wasn't for him. I know that." She glances down and runs her finger along the edge of the table. "I suffered a serious psychotic episode, and without Mr. Grey and John—Dr. Flynn . . ." She shrugs and gazes at me once more, her face full of gratitude.

Once again I'm speechless. What does she expect me to say? Surely she should be saying these things to Christian, not me.

"And for art school. I can't thank him enough for that."

I knew it! Christian is funding her classes. I remain expressionless, tentatively exploring my feelings for this woman now that she's confirmed my suspicions about Christian's generosity. To my surprise, I feel no ill will toward her. It's a revelation, and I'm glad she's better. Now, hopefully, she can move on with her life and out of ours.

"Are you missing classes right now?" I ask, because I'm interested.

"Only two. I head home tomorrow."

Oh good. "What are your plans, while you're here?"

"ick up my belongings from Susi, return to Hamden. Continue painting and learning. Mr. Grey already has a couple of my paintings."

What the hell! My stomach plunges into the basement once more. Are they hanging in my living room? I bridle at the thought.

"What sort of painting do you do?"

"Abstracts, mainly."

"I see." My mind flits through the now-familiar paintings in the great room.

Two by his ex-sub . . . possibly. Jeez.

"Mrs. Grey, can I speak frankly?" she asks, completely oblivious to my warring emotions.

"By all means," I mutter, glancing at Prescott, who looks like she's relaxed a little. Leila leans forward as if to impart a long-held secret.

"I loved Geoff, my boyfriend who died earlier this year." Her voice drops to a sad whisper.

Holy shit, she's getting personal.

"I'm so sorry," I mutter automatically, but she continues as if she hasn't heard me.

"I loved my husband . . . and one other," she murmurs.

"My husband." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

"Yes." She mouths the word.

This is not news to me. When she lifts her brown eyes to mine, they are wide with conflicting emotions, and the overriding one seems to be apprehension . . . of my reaction, perhaps? But my overwhelming response to this poor young woman is compassion. Mentally I run through all the classical literature I can think of that deals with unrequited love. Swallowing hard, I clutch the moral high ground.

"I know. He's very easy to love," I whisper.

Her wide eyes widen further in surprise, and she smiles. "Yes. He is—was."

She corrects herself quickly and blushes. Then she giggles so sweetly that I can't help myself. I giggle, too. Yes, Christian Grey makes us giggly. My subconscious rolls her eyes at me in despair and goes back to reading her dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre. I glance at my watch. Deep down I know Christian will be here soon.

"You'll get your chance to see Christian."

"I thought I would. I know how protective he can be." She smiles.

So this is her scheme. She's very shrewd. Or manipulative, whispers my subconscious. "This is why you're here to see me?"

"Yes."

"I see." And Christian is playing right into her hands. Reluctantly, I have to acknowledge that she knows him well.

"He seemed very happy. With you," she says.

What? "How would you know?"

"From when I was in the apartment." She adds cautiously.

Oh hell . . . how could I forget that?

"Were you there often?"

"No. But he was very different with you."

Do I want to hear this? A shudder runs through me. My scalp prickles as I recall my fear when she was the unseen shadow in our apartment.

"You know it's against the law. Trespassing."

She nods, gazing down at the table. She runs a fingernail along the edge. "It was only a few times, and I was lucky not to get caught. Again, I need to thank Mr. Grey for that. He could have had me thrown in jail."

"I don't think he'd do that," I murmur.

Suddenly there is a flurry of activity outside the meeting room, and instinctively I know that Christian is in the building. A moment later he bursts through the door, and before he closes it, I catch Taylor's eye as he stands patiently outside. Taylor's mouth is set in a grim line, and he doesn't return my tight smile. Oh hell, even he's mad at me.

Christian's burning gray gaze pins first me then Leila to our chairs. His demeanor is quietly determined, but I know better, and I suspect Leila does, too. The menacing cool glint in his eyes reveals the truth—he's emanating rage, though he hides it well. In his gray suit, with his dark tie loosened and the top button of his white shirt undone, he looks at once businesslike and casual . . . and hot. His hair is in disarray—no doubt because he's been running his hands through it in exasperation.

Leila looks nervously down at the edge of the table, running her index finger along the edge again as Christian looks from me to her and then to Prescott.

"You," he says to Prescott in a soft tone. "You're fired. Get out now."

I blanch. Oh no—this isn't fair.

"Christian—" I make to stand up.

He holds his index finger up at me in warning. "Don't," he says. His voice so ominously quiet that I'm immediately silenced and rooted to my seat. Bowing her head, Prescott walks briskly out of the room to join Taylor. Christian shuts the door behind her and walks to the edge of the table. Crap! Crap! Crap! That was my fault. Christian stands opposite Leila, and placing both hands on the wooden surface, he leans forward.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he growls at her.

"Christian!" I gasp. He ignores me.

"Well?" he demands.

Leila peeks up at him through long lashes, her eyes wide, her face ashen, her rosy glow gone.

"I wanted to see you, and you wouldn't let me," she whispers.

"So you came here to harass my wife?" His voice is quiet. Too quiet.

Leila looks down at the table again.

He stands, glowering at her. "Leila, if you come anywhere near my wife again, I will cut off all support. Doctors, art school, medical insurance—all of it—gone. Do you understand?"

"Christian—" I try again. But he silences me with a chilling look. Why is he being so unreasonable? My compassion for this sad woman blooms.

"Yes," she says, her voice just audible.

"What's Susannah doing in reception?"

"She came with me."

He runs a hand through his hair, glaring at her.

"Christian, please," I beg him. "Leila just wants to say thank you. That's all."

He ignores me, concentrating his wrath on Leila. "Did you stay with Susannah while you were sick?"

"Yes."

"Did she know what you were doing while you were staying with her?"

"No. She was away on vacation."

He strokes his index finger over his lower lip. "Why do you need to see me?

You know you should send any requests through Flynn. Do you need something?"

His tone has softened, maybe by a fraction.

Leila runs her finger along the edge of the table again.

Stop bullying her, Christian!

"I had to know." And for the first time she looks up directly at him.

"Had to know what?" he snaps.

"That you're okay."

He gapes at her. "That I'm okay?" he scoffs, disbelieving.

"Yes."

"I'm fine. There, question answered. Now Taylor will run you to Sea-Tac so you can go back to the East Coast. And if you take one step west of the Missis-sippi, it's all gone. Understand?"

Holy fuck . . . Christian! I gape at him. What the fuck is eating him? He cannot confine her to one side of the country.

"Yes. I understand," Leila says quietly.

"Good." Christian's tone is more conciliatory.

"It might not be convenient for Leila to go back now. She has plans," I object, outraged on her behalf.

Christian glares at me. "Anastasia," he warns, his voice icy, "this does not concern you."

I scowl at him. Of course it concerns me. She's in my office. There must be more to this than I know. He's not being rational.

Fifty Shades, my subconscious hisses at me.

"Leila came to see me, not you," I murmur petulantly.

Leila turns to me, her eyes impossibly wide.

"I had my instructions, Mrs. Grey. I disobeyed them." She glances nervously at my husband, then back at me.

"This is the Christian Grey I know," she says, her tone sad and wistful. Christian frowns at her, while all the breath evaporates from my lungs. I can't breathe.

Was Christian like this with her all the time? Was he like this with me, at first? I find it hard to remember. Giving me a forlorn smile, Leila rises from the table.

"I'd like to stay until tomorrow. My flight is at noon," she says quietly to Christian.

"I'll have someone collect you at ten to take you to the airport."

"Thank you."

"You're at Susannah's?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

I glare at Christian. He can't dictate to her like this . . . and how does he know where Susannah lives?

"Good-bye, Mrs. Grey. Thank you for seeing me."

I stand and hold out my hand. She takes it gratefully and we shake.

"Um . . . good-bye. Good luck," I mutter, because I'm not sure what the protocol is for saying farewell to my husband's ex-submissive.

She nods and turns to him. "Good-bye, Christian."

Christian's eyes soften a little. "Good-bye, Leila." His is voice low. "Dr.

Flynn, remember."

"Yes, Sir."

He opens the door to usher her out, but she halts in front of him and looks up.

He stills, watching her warily.

"I'm glad you're happy. You deserve to be," she says and leaves before he can reply. He frowns after her, then nods to Taylor, who follows Leila toward the reception area. Closing the door, Christian gazes uncertainly at me.

"Don't even think about being angry with me," I hiss. "Call Claude Bastille and kick the shit out of him or go see Flynn."

His mouth drops open; he's so surprised by my outburst, and his brow creases once more.

"You promised you wouldn't do this." Now his tone is accusatory.

"Do what?"

"Defy me."

"No I didn't. I said I'd be more considerate. I told you she was here. I had Prescott search her, and your other little friend, too. Prescott was with me the entire time. Now you've fired the poor woman, when she was only doing what I asked. I told you not to worry, yet here you are. I don't remember receiving your papal bull decreeing that I couldn't see Leila. I didn't know that my visitors were subject to a proscribed list." My voice rises with indignation as I warm to my cause. Christian regards me, his expression unreadable. After a moment his mouth twists.

"apal bull?" he says, amused, and he visibly relaxes. I wasn't aiming to lighten our conversation, yet here he is smirking at me, and that makes me madder. The exchange between him and his ex was painful to witness. How could he be so cold with her?

"What?" he asks, exasperated, as my face remains resolutely straight.

"You. Why were you so callous toward her?"

He sighs and shifts, stepping toward me and perching on the table.

"Anastasia," he says as if to a child. "You don't understand. Leila, Susannah—all of them—they were a pleasant, diverting pastime. But that's all. You are the center of my universe. And the last time you two were in a room together, she had you at gunpoint. I don't want her anywhere near you."

"But, Christian, she was ill."

"I know that, and I know she's better now, but I'm not giving her the benefit of the doubt anymore. What she did was unforgivable."

"But you've just played right into her hands. She wanted to see you again, and she knew you'd come running if she came to see me."

Christian shrugs as if he doesn't care. "I don't want you tainted with my old life."

What?

"Christian . . . you are who you are because of your old life, your new life, whatever. What touches you, touches me. I accepted that when I agreed to marry you, because I love you."

He stills. I know he finds it hard to hear this.

"She didn't hurt me. She loves you, too."

"I don't give a fuck."

I gape at him, shocked. And I'm shocked that he still has the capacity to shock me. This is the Christian Grey I know. Leila's words rattle around my head.

His reaction to her was so cold, so much at odds with the man I've come to know and love. I frown, recalling the remorse he felt when she had her breakdown, when he thought he might in some way be responsible for her pain. I swallow, remembering, too, that he bathed her. My stomach twists painfully at the thought, and bile rises in my throat. How can he say he doesn't care about her? He did back then. What's changed? Sometimes, like now, I just don't understand him. He operates on a level far, far removed from mine.

"Why are you championing her cause all of a sudden?" he asks, mystified and irritable.

"Look, Christian, I don't think Leila and I will be swapping recipes and knit-ting patterns anytime soon. But I didn't think you'd be so heartless to her."

His eyes frost. "I told you once, I don't have a heart," he mutters.

I roll my eyes—oh, now he is being adolescent.

"That's just not true, Christian. You're being ridiculous. You do care about her. You wouldn't be paying for art classes and the rest of that stuff if you didn't."

Suddenly, it's my lifetime ambition to make him realize this. It's painstak-ingly obvious that he cares. Why does he deny it? It's like his feelings for his birth mother. Oh shit—of course. His feelings for Leila and his other submissives are tangled up with his feelings for his mother . I like to whip little brown-haired girls like you because you all look like the crack whore. No wonder he's so mad. I sigh and shake my head. Paging Dr. Flynn, please. How can he not see this?

My heart swells for him momentarily. My lost boy . . . Why is it so hard for him to get back in touch with the humanity, the compassion he showed Leila when she had her breakdown?

He glares at me, his eyes glittering with anger. "This discussion is over. Let's go home."

I glance at my watch. It's four twenty-three. I have work to do. "It's too early," I mutter.

"Home," he insists.

"Christian." My voice is weary. "I'm tired of having the same argument with you."

He frowns as if he doesn't understand.

"You know," I elucidate, "I do something you don't like, and you think of some way to get back at me. Usually involving some of your kinky fuckery, which is either mind-blowing or cruel." I shrug, resigned. This is exhausting and confusing.

"Mind-blowing?" he asks.

What?

"Usually, yes."

"What was mind-blowing?" he asks, his eyes now shimmering with amused sensual curiosity. And I know he's trying to distract me.

Crap! I do not want to discuss this in SIP's meeting room. My subconscious examines her finely manicured nails with disdain. Shouldn't have brought the subject up, then.

"You know." I blush, irritated with both him and myself.

"I can guess," he whispers.

Holy crap. I'm trying to castigate him and he's confounding me. "Christian, I—"

"I like to please you." He delicately traces his thumb over my bottom lip.

"You do," I acknowledge, my voice a whisper.

"I know," he says softly. He leans forward and whispers in my ear, "It's the one thing I do know." Oh, he smells good. He leans back and gazes down at me, his lips curled in an arrogant, I-so-own-you smile.

Pursing my lips, I strive to appear unaffected by his touch. He is so artful at diverting me from anything painful, or anything he doesn't want to address. And you let him, my subconscious pipes up unhelpfully, gazing over her copy of Jane Eyre.

"What was mind-blowing, Anastasia?" he prompts, a wicked gleam in his eye.

"You want the list?" I ask.

"There's a list?" He's pleased.

Oh, this man is exhausting. "Well, the handcuffs," I mumble, my mind catapulted back to our honeymoon.

He furrows his brow and grasps my hand, tracing the pulse point on my wrist with his thumb.

"I don't want to mark you."

Oh . . .

His lips curl in a slow carnal smile. "Come home." His tone is seductive.

"I have work to do."

"Home," he says, more insistent.

We gaze at each other, molten gray into bewildered blue, testing each other, testing our boundaries and our wills. I search his eyes for some understanding, trying to fathom how this man can go from raging control freak to seductive lover in one breath. His eyes grow larger and darker, his intention clear. Softly, he caresses my cheek.

"We could stay here." His is voice low and husky.

Oh no. My inner goddess gazes longingly down at the wooden table. No. No.

No. Not in the office. "Christian, I don't want to have sex here. Your mistress has just been in this room."

"She was never my mistress," he growls, his mouth flattening into a grim line.

"That's just semantics, Christian."

He frowns, his expression puzzled. The seductive lover has gone. "Don't overthink this, Ana. She's history," he says dismissively.

I sigh . . . maybe he's right. I just want him to admit to himself that he cares for her. A chill grips my heart. Oh no. This is why it's important to me. Suppose I do something unforgivable. Suppose I don't conform. Will I be history, too? If he can turn like this, when he was so concerned and upset when Leila was ill . . .

could he turn against me? I gasp, recalling the fragments of a dream: gilt mirrors and the sound of his heels clicking on the marbled floor as he leaves me standing alone in opulent splendor.

"No . . ." The words are out of my mouth in whispered horror before I can stop them.

"Yes," he says, and grasping my chin, he leans down and plants a tender kiss on my lips.

"Oh, Christian, you scare me sometimes." I grasp his head in my hands, twist my fingers into his hair, and pull his lips to mine. He stills for a moment as his arms fold around me.

"Why?"

"You could turn away from her so easily . . ."

He frowns. "And you think I might turn away from you, Ana? Why the hell would you think that? What's brought this on?"

"Nothing. Kiss me. Take me home," I plead. And as his lips touch mine, I am lost.

"Oh please," I beg, as Christian blows gently on my sex.

"All in good time," he murmurs.

I pull on my restraints and groan loudly in protest from his carnal assault. I'm trussed up in soft leather cuffs, each elbow bound to each knee, and Christian's head bobs and weaves between my legs, his masterful tongue teasing me, relentless. I open my eyes and gaze unseeing at our bedroom ceiling bathed in the soft late afternoon light. His tongue moves round and round, swirling and curling over and around the center of my universe. I want to straighten my legs and struggle in a vain attempt to control the pleasure. But I can't. My fingers fist in his hair and I tug hard to fight his sublime torture.

"Don't come," he murmurs in warning against me, his soft breath on my warm, wet flesh as he resists my fingers. "I will spank you if you come."

I moan.

"Control, Ana. It's all about control." His tongue renews its erotic incursion.

Oh, he knows what he's doing. I am helpless to resist or stop my slavish reaction, and I try—really try—but my body detonates under his merciless ministra-tions, and his tongue doesn't stop as he wrings every last ounce of debilitating pleasure from me.

"Oh, Ana," he scolds. "You came." His voice is soft with his triumphant reprimand. He flips me onto my front, and I shakily support myself on my forearms.

He smacks me hard on my behind.

"Ah!" I cry out.

"Control," he admonishes, and grabbing my hips he thrusts himself into me. I cry out again, my flesh still quivering from the aftershocks of my orgasm. He stills while deep inside me and, leaning over, unclips first one, then the second cuff. He wraps his arm around me and pulls me into his lap, his front to my back, and his hand curls beneath my chin around my throat. I revel in the feeling of fullness.

"Move," he orders.

I moan and rise up and down on his lap.

"Faster," he whispers.

And I move faster and faster. He groans and his hand tips my head back as he nibbles my neck. His other hand travels leisurely across my body, from my hip, down to my sex, down to my clitoris . . . still sensitive from his earlier lavish attention. I whimper as his fingers close around me, teasing me once more.

"Yes, Ana," he rasps softly in my ear. "You are mine. Only you."

"Yes," I breathe as my body tightens again, closing around him, cradling him in the most intimate way.

"Come for me," he demands.

And I let go, my body obediently following his command. He holds me still as my climax rips through me and I call out his name.

"Oh, Ana, I love you," he groans and follows my lead as he bucks into me, finding his own release.

He kisses my shoulder and smoothes my hair from my face. "Does that make the list, Mrs. Grey?" he murmurs. I am lying, barely conscious, flat on my belly on our bed. Christian gently kneads my backside. He's propped up beside me on one elbow.

"Hmm."

"Is that a yes?"

"Hmm." I smile.

He grins and kisses me again, and reluctantly I roll on my side to face him.

"Well?" he asks.

"Yes. It makes the list. But it's a long list."

His face nearly splits in two, and he leans forward to kiss me gently. "Good.

Shall we have dinner?" His eyes glow with love and humor.

I nod. I am famished. I reach over to gently pull the little hairs on his chest. "I want you to tell me something," I whisper.

"What?"

"Don't get mad."

"What is it, Ana?"

"You do care."

His eyes widen, and all trace of his good humor vanishes.

"I want you to admit that you care. Because the Christian I know and love would care."

He stills, his eyes not leaving mine, and I'm witness to his internal struggle as if he's about to make the judgment of Solomon. He opens his mouth to say something then closes it again as some fleeting emotion crosses his face . . . pain, maybe.

Say it, I will him.

"Yes. Yes, I care. Happy?" His voice is barely a whisper.

Oh, thank fuck for that. It's a relief. "Yes. Very."

He frowns. "I can't believe I'm talking to you now, here in our bed, about—"

I put my finger to his lips. "We're not. Let's eat. I'm hungry."

He sighs and shakes his head. "You beguile and bewilder me, Mrs. Grey."

"Good." I lean up and kiss him.

From: Anastasia Grey

Subject: The List

Date: September 9, 2011 09:33

To: Christian Grey

That's definitely at the top.



A x

Anastasia Grey

Commissioning Editor, SIP

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Tell Me Something New

Date: September 9, 2011 09:42

To: Anastasia Grey

You've said that for the last three days.

Make your mind up.Or . . . we could try something else.

;)

Christian Grey

CEO, Enjoying this Game, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

I grin at my screen. The last few evenings have been . . . entertaining. We have relaxed again, Leila's brief interruption forgotten. I haven't quite worked up the courage to ask if any of her paintings hang on the walls—and frankly, I don't really care. My BlackBerry buzzes and I answer, expecting Christian.

"Ana?"

"Yes?"

"Ana, honey. It's José Senior."

"Mr. Rodriguez! Hi!" My scalp prickles. What does José's dad want with me?

"Honey, I'm sorry to call you at work. It's Ray." His voice falters.

"What is it? What's happened?" My heart leaps into my throat.

"Ray's been in an accident."

Oh, no. Daddy. I stop breathing.

"He's in the hospital. You'd better get here quick."

Chapter Seventeen

"Mr. Rodriguez, what's happened?" My voice is hoarse and thick with unshed tears. Ray. Sweet Ray. My dad.

"He's been in a car accident."

"Okay, I'll come . . . I'll come now." Adrenaline has flooded my bloodstream, leaving panic in its wake. I'm finding it difficult to breathe.

"They've transferred him to Portland."

Portland? What the hell is he doing in Portland?

"They airlifted him, Ana. I'm heading there now. OHSU. Oh, Ana, I didn't see the car. I just didn't see it . . ." His voice cracks.

Mr. Rodriguez—no!

"I'll see you there." Mr. Rodriguez chokes and the line goes dead.

A dark dread seizes me by the throat, overwhelming me. Ray. No. No. I take a deep steadying breath, pick up the phone and call Roach. He answers on the second ring.

"Ana?"

"Jerry. It's my father."

"Ana, what happened?"

I explain, barely pausing to breathe.

"Go. Of course, you must go. I hope your father's okay."

"Thank you. I'll keep you informed." Inadvertently I slam the phone down, but right now couldn't care less.

"Hannah!" I call, aware of the anxiety in my voice. Moments later she pokes her head around the door to find me packing my purse and grabbing papers to stuff into my briefcase.

"Yes, Ana?" She frowns.

"My father has been in an accident. I have to go."

"Oh dear—"

"Cancel all my appointments today. And Monday. You'll have to finish prepping the e-book presentation—notes are in the shared file. Get Courtney to help if you have to."

"Yes," Hannah whispers. "I hope he's okay. Don't worry about anything here. We'll muddle through."

"I have my BlackBerry."

The concern etched on her pinched, pale face is almost my undoing.

Daddy.

I grab my jacket, purse, and briefcase. "I'll call you if I need anything."

"Do, please. Good luck, Ana. Hope he's okay."

I give her a small tight smile, fighting to maintain my composure, and exit my office. I try hard not to run all the way to reception. Sawyer leaps to his feet when I arrive.

"Mrs. Grey?" he asks, confused by my sudden appearance.

"We're going to Portland—now."

"Okay, ma'am," he says, frowning, but opens the door.

Moving is good.

"Mrs. Grey," Sawyer asks as we race toward the parking lot. "Can I ask why we're making this unscheduled trip?"

"It's my dad. He's been in an accident."

"I see. Does Mr. Grey know?"

"I'll call him from the car."

Sawyer nods and opens the rear door to the Audi SUV, and I climb in. With shaking fingers, I reach for my BlackBerry, and I dial Christian's cell.

"Mrs. Grey." Andrea's voice is crisp and businesslike.

"Is Christian there?" I breathe.

"Um . . . he's somewhere in the building, ma'am. He's left his BlackBerry charging with me."

I groan silently with frustration.

"Can you tell him I called, and that I need to speak with him? It's urgent."

"I could try and track him down. He does have a habit of wandering off sometimes."

"Just get him to call me, please," I beg, fighting back tears.

"Certainly, Mrs. Grey." She hesitates. "Is everything all right?"

"No," I whisper, not trusting my voice. "Please, just get him to call me."

"Yes, ma'am."

I hang up. I cannot contain my anguish any longer. Pulling my knees up to my chest, I curl up on the rear seat, and tears ooze, unwelcome, down my cheeks.

"Where in Portland, Mrs. Grey?" Sawyer asks gently.

"OHSU," I choke out. "The big hospital."

Sawyer pulls out into the street and heads for the I-5, while I keen softly in the back of the car, muttering wordless prayers. Please let him be okay. Please let him be okay.

My phone rings, "Your Love Is King" startling me from my mantra.

"Christian," I gasp.

"Christ, Ana. What's wrong?"

"It's Ray—he's been in an accident."

"Shit!"

"Yes. I am on my way to Portland."

"Portland? Please tell me Sawyer is with you."

"Yes, he's driving."

"Where is Ray?"

"At OHSU."

I hear a muffled voice in the background. "Yes, Ros," Christian snaps angrily. "I know! Sorry, baby—I can be there in about three hours. I have business I need to finish here. I'll fly down."

Oh shit. Charlie Tango is back in commission and last time Christian flew her . . .

"I have a meeting with some guys over from Taiwan. I can't blow them off.

It's a deal we've been hammering out for months."

Why do I know nothing about this?

"I'll leave as soon as I can."

"Okay," I whisper. And I want to say that it's okay, stay in Seattle, and sort out your business, but the truth is I want him with me.

"Oh, baby," he whispers.

"I'll be okay, Christian. Take your time. Don't rush. I don't want to worry about you, too. Fly safely."

"I will."

"Love you."

"I love you, too, baby. I'll be with you as soon as I can. Keep Luke close."

"Yes, I will."

"I'll see you later."

"Bye." After hanging up, I hug my knees once more. I know nothing about Christian's business. What the hell is he doing with the Taiwanese? I gaze out the window as we pass Boeing Field-King County Airport. He must fly safely. My stomach knots anew and nausea threatens. Ray and Christian. I don't think my heart could take that. Leaning back, I start my mantra again: Please let him be okay. Please let him be okay.

"Mrs. Grey." Sawyer's voice rouses me. "We're on the hospital grounds. I just have to find the ER."

"I know where it is." My mind flits back to my last visit to OHSU when, on my second day, I fell off a stepladder at Clayton's, twisting my ankle. I recall Paul Clayton hovering over me and shudder at the memory.

Sawyer pulls up to the drop-off point and leaps out to open my door.

"I'll go park, ma'am, and come find you. Leave your briefcase, I'll bring it."

"Thank you, Luke."

He nods, and I walk briskly into the buzzing ER reception area. The recep-tionist at the desk gives me a polite smile, and within a few moments, she's located Ray and is sending me to the OR on the third floor.

OR? Fuck! "Thank you," I mutter, trying to focus on her directions to the elevators. My stomach lurches as I almost run toward them.

Let him be okay. Please let him be okay.

The elevator is agonizingly slow, stopping on each floor. Come on . . . Come on! I will it to move faster, scowling at the people strolling in and out and preventing me from getting to my dad.

Finally, the doors open on the third floor, and I rush to another reception desk, this one staffed by nurses in navy uniforms.

"Can I help you?" asks one officious nurse with a myopic stare.

"My father, Raymond Steele. He's just been admitted. He's in OR-4, I think."

Even as I say the words, I am willing them not to be true.

"Let me check, Miss Steele."

I nod, not bothering to correct her as she gazes intently at her computer screen.

"Yes. He's been in for a couple of hours. If you'd like to wait, I'll let them know that you're here. The waiting room's there." She points toward a large white door helpfully labeled WAITING ROOM in bold blue lettering.

"Is he okay?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

"You'll have to wait for one of the attending doctor to brief you, ma'am."

"Thank you," I mutter—but inside I am screaming, I want to know now!

I open the door to reveal a functional, austere waiting room where Mr.

Rodriguez and José are seated.

"Ana!" Mr. Rodriguez gasps. His arm is in a cast, and his cheek is bruised on one side. He's in a wheelchair with one of his legs in a cast too. I gingerly wrap my arms around him.

"Oh, Mr. Rodriguez," I sob.

"Ana, honey." He pats my back with his uninjured arm. "I'm so sorry," he mumbles, his hoarse voice cracking.

Oh no.

"No, Papa," José says softly in admonishment as he hovers behind me. When I turn, he pulls me into his arms and holds me.

"José," I mutter. And I'm lost—tears falling as all the tension, fear, and heartache of the last three hours surface.

"Hey, Ana, don't cry." José gently strokes my hair. I wrap my arms around his neck and softly weep. We stand like this for ages, and I'm so grateful that my friend is here. We pull apart when Sawyer joins us in the waiting room. Mr.

Rodriguez hands me a tissue from a conveniently placed box, and I dry my tears.

"This is Mr. Sawyer. Security," I murmur. Sawyer nods politely to José and Mr. Rodriguez then moves to take a seat in the corner.

"Sit down, Ana." José ushers me to one of the vinyl-covered armchairs.

"What happened? Do we know how he is? What are they doing?"

José holds up his hands to halt my barrage of questions and sits down beside me. "We don't have any news. Ray, Dad, and I were on a fishing trip to Astoria.

We were hit by some stupid fucking drunk—"

Mr. Rodriguez tries to interrupt, stammering an apology.

"Cálmate, Papa!" José snaps. "I don't have a mark on me, just a couple of bruised ribs and a knock on the head. Dad . . . well, Dad broke his wrist and ankle.

But the car hit the passenger side and Ray."

Oh no, no . . . Panic swamps my limbic system again. No, no, no. My body shudders and chills as I imagine what's happening to Ray in the OR.

"He's in surgery. We were taken to the community hospital in Astoria, but they airlifted Ray here. We don't know what they're doing. We're waiting for news."

I start to shake.

"Hey, Ana, you cold?"

I nod. I'm in my white sleeveless shirt and black summer jacket, and neither provides warmth. Gingerly, José pulls off his leather jacket and wraps it around my shoulders.

"Shall I get you some tea, ma'am?" Sawyer is by my side. I nod gratefully, and he disappears from the room.

"Why were you fishing in Astoria?" I ask.

José shrugs. "The fishing's supposed to be good there. We were having a boys' get-together. Some bonding time with my old man before academia heats up for my final year." José's dark eyes are large and luminous with fear and regret.

"You could have been hurt, too. And Mr. Rodriguez . . . worse." I gulp at the thought. My body temperature drops further, and I shiver once more. José takes my hand.

"Hell, Ana, you're freezing."

Mr. Rodriguez inches forward and takes my other hand in his good one.

"Ana, I am so sorry."

"Mr. Rodriguez, please. It was an accident . . ." My voice fades to a whisper.

"Call me José," he corrects me. I give him a weak smile, because that's all I can manage. I shiver once more.

"The police took the asshole into custody. Seven in the morning and the guy was out of his skull," José hisses in disgust.

Sawyer reenters, bearing a paper cup of hot water and a separate teabag. He knows how I take my tea! I'm surprised, and glad for the distraction. Mr. Rodriguez and José release my hands as I gratefully take the cup from Sawyer.

"Do either of you want anything?" Sawyer asks Mr. Rodriguez and José.

They both shake their heads, and Sawyer resumes his seat in the corner. I dunk my teabag in the water and, rising shakily, dispose of the used bag in a small trashcan.

"What's taking them so long?" I mutter to no one in particular as I take a sip.

Daddy . . . Please let him be okay. Please let him be okay.

"We'll know soon enough, Ana," José says gently. I nod and take another sip.

I take my seat again beside him. We wait . . . and wait. Mr. Rodriguez with his eyes closed, praying I think, and José holding my hand and squeezing it every now and then. I slowly sip my tea. It's not Twinings, but some cheap nasty brand, and it tastes disgusting.

I remember the last time I waited for news. The last time I thought all was lost when Charlie Tango went missing. Closing my eyes, I offer up a silent prayer for the safe passage of my husband. I glance at my watch: 2:15 p.m. He should be here soon. My tea is cold . . . Ugh!

I stand up and pace then sit down again. Why haven't the doctors been to see me? I take José's hand, and he gives mine another reassuring squeeze. Please let him be okay. Please let him be okay.

Time crawls so slowly.

Suddenly the door opens, and we all glance up expectantly, my stomach knotting. Is this it?

Christian strides in. His face darkens momentarily when he notices my hand in José's.

"Christian!" I gasp and leap up, thanking God he's arrived safely. Then I'm wrapped in his arms, his nose in my hair, and I'm inhaling his scent, his warmth, his love. A small part of me feels calmer, stronger, and more resilient because he's here. Oh, the difference his presence makes to my peace of mind.

"Any news?"

I shake my head, unable to speak.

"José." He nods a greeting.

"Christian, this is my father, José Senior."

"Mr. Rodriguez—we met at the wedding. I take it you were in the accident, too?"

José briefly retells the story.

"Are you both well enough to be here?" Christian asks.

"We don't want to be anywhere else," Mr. Rodriguez says, his voice quiet and laced with pain. Christian nods. Taking my hand, he sits me down then takes a seat beside me.

"Have you eaten?" he asks.

I shake my head.

"Are you hungry?"

I shake my head.

"But you're cold?" he asks, eyeing José's jacket.

I nod. He shifts in his chair, but wisely says nothing.

The door opens again, and a young doctor in bright blue scrubs enters. He looks exhausted and harrowed.

All the blood disappears from my head as I stumble to my feet.

"Ray Steele," I whisper as Christian stands beside me, putting his arm around my waist.

"You're his next of kin?" the doctor asks. His bright blue eyes almost match his scrubs, and under any other circumstances I would have found him attractive.

"I'm his daughter, Ana."

"Miss Steele—"

"Mrs. Grey," Christian interrupts him.

"My apologies," the doctor stammers, and for a moment I want to kick Christian. "I'm Doctor Crowe. Your father is stable, but in a critical condition."

What does that mean? My knees buckle beneath me, and only Christian's supporting arm prevents me from falling to the floor.

"He suffered severe internal injuries," Dr. Crowe says, "principally to his dia-phragm, but we've managed to repair them, and we were able to save his spleen.

Unfortunately, he suffered a cardiac arrest during the operation because of blood loss. We managed to get his heart going again, but this remains a concern.

However, our gravest concern is that he suffered severe contusions to the head, and the MRI shows that he has swelling in his brain. We've induced a coma to keep him quiet and still while we monitor the brain swelling."

Brain damage? No.

"It's standard procedure in these cases. For now, we just have to wait and see."

"And what's the prognosis?" Christian asks coolly.

"Mr. Grey, it's difficult to say at the moment. It's possible he could make a complete recovery, but that's in God's hands now."

"How long will you keep him in a coma?"

"That depends on how his brain responds. Usually seventy-two to ninety-six hours."

Oh, so long! "Can I see him?" I whisper.

"Yes, you should be able to see him in about half an hour. He's been taken to the ICU on the sixth floor."

"Thank you, Doctor."

Dr. Crowe nods, turns and leaves us.

"Well, he's alive," I whisper to Christian. And the tears start to roll down my face once more.

"Sit down," Christian orders gently.

"Papa, I think we should go. You need to rest. We won't know anything for a while," José murmurs to Mr. Rodriguez who gazes blankly at his son. "We can come back this evening, after you've rested. That's okay, isn't it, Ana?" José turns, imploring me.

"Of course."

"Are you staying in Portland?" Christian asks. José nods.

"Do you need a ride home?"

José frowns. "I was going to order a cab."

"Luke can take you."

Sawyer stands, and José looks confused.

"Luke Sawyer," I murmur in clarification.

"Oh . . . Sure. Yeah, we'd appreciate it. Thanks, Christian."

Standing, I hug Mr. Rodriguez and José in quick succession.

"Stay strong, Ana," José whispers in my ear. "He's a fit and healthy man.

The odds are in his favor."

"I hope so." I hug him hard. Then, releasing him, I shrug off his jacket hand it back to him.

"Keep it, if you're still cold."

"No, I'm okay. Thanks." Glancing nervously up at Christian, I see that he's regarding us impassively. Christian takes my hand.

"If there's any change, I'll let you know right away," I say as José pushes his father's wheelchair toward the door Sawyer is holding open.

Mr. Rodriguez raises his hand, and they pause in the doorway. "He'll be in my prayers, Ana." His voice wavers. "It's been so good to reconnect with him after all these years. He's become a good friend."

"I know."

And with that they leave. Christian and I are alone. He caresses my cheek.

"You're pale. Come here." He sits down on the chair and pulls me on to his lap, folding me into his arms again, and I go willingly. I snuggle up against him, feeling oppressed by my stepfather's misfortune, but grateful that my husband is here to comfort me. He gently strokes my hair and holds my hand.

"How was Charlie Tango?" I ask.

He grins. "Oh, she was yar," he says, quiet pride in his voice. It makes me smile properly for the first time in several hours, and I glance at him, puzzled.

"Yar?"

"It's a line from The Philadelphia Story. Grace's favorite film."

"I don't know it."

"I think I have it on Blu-Ray at home. We can watch it and make out." He kisses my hair and I smile once more.

"Can I persuade you to eat something?" he asks.

My smile disappears. "Not now. I want to see Ray first."

His shoulders slump, but he doesn't push me.

"How were the Taiwanese?"

"Amenable," he says.

"Amenable how?"

"They let my buy their shipyard for less than the price I was willing to pay."

He's bought a shipyard? "That's good?"

"Yes. That's good."

"But I thought you had a shipyard, over here."

"I do. We're going to use that to do the fitting-out. Build the hulls in the Far East. It's cheaper."

Oh. "What about the workforce at the shipyard here?"

"We'll redeploy. We should be able to keep redundancies to a minimum." He kisses my hair. "Shall we check on Ray?" he asks, his voice soft.

The ICU on the sixth floor is a stark, sterile, functional ward with whispered voices and bleeping machinery. Four patients are each housed in their own separate hi-tech area. Ray is at the far end.

Daddy.

He looks so small in his large bed, surrounded by all this technology. It's a shock. My dad has never been so diminished. There's a tube in his mouth, and various lines pass through drips into a needle in each arm. A small clamp is attached to his finger. I wonder vaguely what that's for. His leg is on top of the sheets, encased in a blue cast. A monitor displays his heart rate: beep, beep, beep.

It's beating strong and steady. This I know. I move slowly toward him. His chest is covered in a large, pristine bandage that disappears beneath the thin sheet that protects his modesty.

Daddy.

I realize that the tube pulling at the right corner of his mouth leads to a ventilator. Its noise is weaving with the beep, beep, beep of his heart monitor into a per-cussive rhythmic beat. Sucking, expelling, sucking, expelling, sucking, expelling in time with the beeps. There are four lines on the screen of his heart monitor, each moving steadily across, demonstrating clearly that Ray is still with us.

Oh, Daddy.

Even though his mouth is distorted by the ventilator tube, he looks peaceful, lying there fast asleep.

A petite young nurse stands to one side, checking his monitors.

"Can I touch him?" I ask her, tentatively reaching for his hand.

"Yes." She smiles kindly. Her badge says KELLIE RN , and she must be in her twenties. She's blonde with dark, dark eyes.

Christian stands at the end of the bed, watching me carefully as I clasp Ray's hand. It's surprisingly warm, and that's my undoing. I sink on to the chair by the bed, place my head gently against Ray's arm, and start to sob.

"Oh, Daddy. Please get better," I whisper. "Please."

Christian puts his hand on my shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

"All Mr. Steele's vitals are good," Nurse Kellie says quietly.

"Thank you," Christian murmurs. I glance up in time to see her gape. She's finally gotten a good look at my husband. I don't care. She can gape at Christian all she likes as long as she makes my father well again.

"Can he hear me?" I ask.

"He's in a deep sleep. But who knows?"

"Can I sit for a while?"

"Sure thing." She smiles at me, her cheeks pink from a telltale blush. Incongruously, I find myself thinking blond is not her true color.

Christian gazes down at me, ignoring her. "I need to make a call. I'll be outside. I'll give you some alone time with your dad."I nod. He kisses my hair and walks out of the room. I hold Ray's hand, marveling at the irony that it's only now when he's unconscious and can't hear me that I really want to tell him how much I love him. This man has been my constant. My rock. And I've never thought about it until now. I'm not flesh of his flesh, but he's my dad, and I love him so very much. My tears trail down my cheeks. Please, please get better.

Very quietly, so as not to disturb anyone, I tell him about our weekend in Aspen and about last weekend when we were soaring and sailing aboard The Grace. I tell him about our new house, our plans, about how we hope to make it ecologically sustainable. I promise to take him with us to Aspen so he can go fishing with Christian and assure him that Mr. Rodriguez and José will both be welcome, too . Please be here to do that, Daddy. Please.

Ray remains immobile, the ventilator sucking and expelling and the monotonous but reassuring beep, beep, beep of his heart monitor his only response.

When I look up, Christian is sitting quietly at the end of the bed. I don't know how long he's been there.

"Hi," he says, his eyes glowing with compassion and concern.

"Hi."

"So, I'm going fishing with your dad, Mr. Rodriguez, and José?" he asks.

I nod.

"Okay. Let's go eat. Let him sleep."

I frown. I don't want to leave him.

"Ana, he's in a coma. I've given our cell numbers to the nurses here. If there's any change, they'll call us. We'll eat, check into a hotel, rest up, then come back this evening."

The suite at the Heathman looks just as I remember it. How often have I thought about that first night and morning I spent with Christian Grey? I stand in the entrance to the suite, paralyzed. Jeez, it all started here.

"Home away from home," says Christian, his voice soft, putting my briefcase down beside one of the overstuffed couches.

"Do you want a shower? A bath? What do you need, Ana?" Christian gazes at me, and I know he's rudderless—my lost boy dealing with events beyond his control. He's been withdrawn and contemplative all afternoon. This is a situation he cannot manipulate and predict. This is real life in the raw, and he's kept himself from that for so long, he's exposed and helpless now. My sweet, sheltered Fifty Shades.

"A bath. I'd like a bath." I murmur, aware that keeping him busy will make him feel better, useful even. Oh, Christian—I'm numb and I'm cold and I'm scared, but I'm so glad you're here with me.

"Bath. Good. Yes." He strides into the bedroom and out of sight into the pala-tial bathroom. A few moments later, the roar of water gushing to fill the tub echoes from the room.

Finally, I galvanize myself to follow him into the bedroom. I'm dismayed to see several bags from Nordstrom on the bed. Christian reenters, sleeves rolled up, tie and jacket discarded.

"I sent Taylor to get some things. Nightwear. You know," he says, eyeing me warily.

Of course he did. I nod my approval to make him feel better. Where is Taylor?

"Oh, Ana," Christian murmurs. "I've not seen you like this. You're normally so brave and strong."

I don't know what to say. I merely gaze wide-eyed at him. I have nothing to give right now. I think I'm in shock. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to keep the pervading cold at bay, even though I know it's a fruitless task as this cold comes from within. Christian pulls me into his arms.

"Baby, he's alive. His vital signs are good. We just have to be patient," he murmurs. "Come." He takes my hand and leads me into the bathroom. Gently, he slips my jacket off my shoulders and places it on the bathroom chair, then turning back, he undoes the buttons on my shirt.

The water is deliciously warm and fragrant, the smell of lotus blossom heavy in the warm, sultry air of the bathroom. I lie between Christian's legs, my back to his front, my feet resting on top of his. We're both quiet and introspective, and I'm finally feeling warm. Intermittently Christian kisses my hair as I absentmindedly pop the bubbles in the foam. His arm is wrapped around my shoulders.

"You didn't get into the bath with Leila, did you? That time you bathed her?"

I ask.

He stiffens and snorts, his hand tightening on my shoulder where it rests.

"Um . . . no." He sounds astounded.

"I thought so. Good."

He tugs gently at my hair knotted in a crude bun, tilting my head around so he can see my face. "Why do you ask?"

I shrug. "Morbid curiosity. I don't know . . . seeing her this week."

His face hardens. "I see. Less of the morbid." His tone is reproachful.

"How long are you going to support her?

"Until she's on her feet. I don't know." He shrugs. "Why?"

"Are there others?"

"Others?"

"Exes who you support."

"There was one, yes. No longer though."

"Oh?"

"She was studying to be a doctor. She's qualified now and has someone else."

"Another Dominant?"

"Yes."

"Leila says you have two of her paintings," I whisper.

"I used to. I didn't really care for them. They had technical merit, but they were too colorful for me. I think Elliot has them. As we know, he has no taste."

I giggle, and he wraps his other arm around me, sloshing water over the side of the bath.

"That's better," he whispers and kisses my temple.

"He's marrying my best friend."

"Then I'd better shut my mouth," he says.

I feel more relaxed after our bath. Wrapped in my soft Heathman robe, I gaze at the various bags on the bed. Jeez, this must be more than nightwear. Tentatively, I peek into one. A pair of jeans and a pale blue hooded sweatshirt, my size. Holy cow . . . Taylor's bought a whole weekend's worth of clothes, and he knows what I like. I smile, remembering this is not the first time he's shopped for clothes for me when I was at the Heathman.

"Apart from harassing me at Clayton's, have you ever actually gone into a store and just bought stuff?"

"Harassing you?"

"Yes. Harassing me."

"You were flustered, if I recall. And that young boy was all over you. What was his name?"

"Paul."

"One of your many admirers."

I roll my eyes, and he smiles a relieved, genuine smile and kisses me.

"There's my girl," he whispers. "Get dressed. I don't want you getting cold again."

"Ready," I murmur. Christian is working on the Mac in the study area of the suite.

He's dressed in black jeans and a gray cable-knit sweater, and I'm wearing the jeans, the hoodie, and a white T-shirt.

"You look so young," Christian says softly, glancing up, his eyes glowing.

"And to think you'll be a whole year older tomorrow." His voice is wistful. I give him a sad smile.

"I don't feel much like celebrating. Can we go see Ray now?"

"Sure. I wish you'd eat something. You barely touched your food."

"Christian, please. I'm just not hungry. Maybe after we've seen Ray. I want to wish him goodnight."

As we arrive at the ICU, we meet José leaving. He's alone.

"Ana, Christian, hi."

"Where's your dad?"

"He was too tired to come back. He was in a car accident this morning," José grins ruefully. "And his painkillers have kicked in. He was out for the count. I had to fight to get in to see Ray since I'm not next of kin."

"And?" I ask anxiously.

"He's good, Ana. Same . . . but all good."

Relief floods my system. No news is good news.

"See you tomorrow, birthday girl?"

"Sure. We'll be here."

José eyes Christian quickly then pulls me into a brief hug. "Ma?ana. "

"Goodnight, José."

"Good-bye, José," Christian says. José nods and walks down the corridor.

"He's still nuts about you," Christian says quietly.

"No he's not. And even if he is . . ." I shrug because right now I just don't care.

Christian gives me a tight smile, and my heart melts.

"Well done," I murmur.

He frowns.

"For not frothing at the mouth."

He gapes at me, wounded—but amused, too. "I've never frothed. Let's see your dad. I have a surprise for you."

"Surprise?" My eyes widen in alarm.

"Come." Christian takes my hand, and we push open the double doors of the ICU.

Standing at the end of Ray's bed is Grace, deep in discussion with Crowe and a second doctor, a woman I've not seen before. Seeing us, Grace grins.

Oh, thank heavens.

"Christian." She kisses his cheek, then turns to me and folds me in her warm embrace.

"Ana. How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine. It's my father I'm worried about."

"He's in good hands. Doctor Sluder is an expert in her field. We trained together at Yale."

Oh . . .

"Mrs. Grey," Dr. Sluder greets me very formally. She's short-haired and elfin with a shy smile and a soft southern accent. "As the lead physician for your father, I'm pleased to tell you that all is on track. His vital signs are stable and strong. We have every faith that he'll make a complete recovery. The brain swelling has stopped, and shows signs of decreasing. This is very encouraging after such a short time."

"That's good news," I murmur.

She smiles warmly at me. "It is, Mrs. Grey. We're taking real good care of him."

"Great to see you again, Grace."

Grace smiles. "Likewise, Lorraina."

"Dr. Crowe, let's leave these good people to visit with Mr. Steele." Crowe follows in Dr. Sluder's wake to the exit.

I glance over at Ray, and for the first time since his accident, I feel more hopeful. Dr. Sluder and Grace's kind words have rekindled my hope.

Grace takes my hand and squeezes gently. "Ana, sweetheart, sit with him.

Talk to him. It's all good. I'll visit with Christian in the waiting room."

I nod. Christian smiles his reassurance, and he and his mother leave me with my beloved father sleeping peacefully to the gentle lullaby of his ventilator and heart monitor.

I slip Christian's white T-shirt on and get into bed.

"You seem brighter," Christian says cautiously as he pulls on his pajamas.

"Yes. I think talking to Dr. Sluder and your mom made a big difference. Did you ask Grace to come here?"

Christian slides into bed and pulls me into his arms, turning me to face away from him.

"No. She wanted to come and check on your dad herself."

"How did she know?"

"I called her this morning."

Oh.

"Baby, you're exhausted. You should sleep."

"Hmm," I murmur in agreement. He's right. I'm so tired. It's been an emotional day. I crane my head around and gaze at him a beat. We're not going to make love? And I'm relieved. In fact, he's had a totally hands-off approach with me all day. I wonder if I should be alarmed by this turn of events, but since my inner goddess has left the building and taken my libido with her, I'll think about it in the morning. I turn over and snuggle against Christian, wrapping my leg over his.

"Promise me something," he says softly.

"Hmm?" It's a question that I am too tired to articulate.

"Promise me you'll eat something tomorrow. I can just about tolerate you wearing another man's jacket without frothing at the mouth, but, Ana . . . you must eat. Please."

"Hmm," I acquiesce. He kisses my hair. "Thank you for being here," I mumble and sleepily kiss his chest.

"Where else would I be? I want to be wherever you are, Ana. Being here makes me think of how far we've come. And the night I first slept with you. What a night that was. I watched you for hours. You were just . . . yar," he breathes. I smile against his chest.

"Sleep," he murmurs, and it's a command. I close my eyes and drift.

Chapter Eighteen

I stir, opening my eyes to a bright September morning. Warm and comfortable between clean, crisp sheets, I take a moment to orientate myself and am overwhelmed by a sense of déja vu. Of course, I'm at the Heathman.

"Shit! Daddy!" I gasp out loud, recalling with a gut-wrenching surge of apprehension that twists my heart and starts it pounding why I'm in Portland.

"Hey." Christian is sitting on the edge of the bed. He strokes my cheek with his knuckles, instantly calming me. "I called the ICU this morning. Ray had a good night. It's all good," he says reassuringly.

"Oh, good. Thank you," I mutter, sitting up.


For all ourfirsts on your first birthday as my beloved wife.

I love you.

  Cx

He leans in and presses his lips to my forehead. "Good morning, Ana," he whispers and kisses my temple.

"Hi," I mutter. He's up and dressed in a black T-shirt and blue jeans.

"Hi," he replies, his eyes soft and warm. "I want to wish you happy birthday.

Is that okay?"

I offer him a tentative smile and caress his cheek. "Yes, of course. Thank you. For everything."

His brow furrows. "Everything?"

"Everything."

He looks momentarily confused, but it's fleeting and his eyes widen with anticipation. "Here." He hands me a small, exquisitely wrapped box with a tiny gift card.

In spite of the worry I feel about my father, I sense Christian's anxiety and excitement, and it's infectious. I read the card.

Oh my, how sweet is that? "I love you, too," I murmur, smiling at him.

He grins. "Open it."

Unwrapping the paper carefully so it doesn't tear, I find a beautiful red leather box. Cartier. It's familiar, thanks to my second-chance earrings and my watch.

Cautiously, I open the box to discover a delicate charm bracelet of silver, or platinum or white gold—I don't know, but it's absolutely enchanting. Attached to it are several charms: the Eiffel Tower, a London black cab, a helicopter —Charlie Tango, a glider—the soaring, a catamaran— The Grace, a bed, and an ice cream cone? I look up at him, bemused.

"Vanilla?" He shrugs apologetically, and I can't help but laugh. Of course.

"Christian, this is beautiful. Thank you. It's yar."

He grins.

My favorite is the heart. It's a locket.

"You can put a picture or whatever in that."

"A picture of you." I glance at him through my lashes. "Always in my heart."

He smiles his lovely, heartbreakingly shy smile.

I fondle the last two charms: a letter C—oh yes, I was his first girlfriend to use his first name. I smile at the thought. And finally, there's a key.

"To my heart and soul," he whispers.

Tears prick my eyes. I launch myself at him, curling my arms around his neck and settling into his lap. "It's such a thoughtful present. I love it. Thank you," I murmur against his ear. Oh, he smells so good—clean, of fresh linen, body wash, and Christian. Like home, my home. My threatened tears begin to fall.

He groans softly and enfolds me in his embrace.

"I don't know what I'd do without you." My voice cracks as I try to hold back the overwhelming swell of emotion.

He swallows hard and tightens his hold on me. "Please don't cry."

I sniff in a rather unladylike way. "I'm sorry. I'm just so happy and sad and anxious at the same time. It's bittersweet."

"Hey." His voice is feather soft. Tipping my head back, he plants a gentle kiss on my lips. "I understand."

"I know," I whisper, and I'm rewarded with his shy smile again.

"I wish we were in happier circumstances and at home. But we're here." He shrugs apologetically once more. "Come, up you go. After breakfast, we'll check on Ray."

Once dressed in my new jeans and T-shirt, my appetite makes a brief but welcome return during breakfast in our suite. I know Christian is pleased to see me eating my granola and Greek yogurt.

"Thank you for ordering my favorite breakfast."

"It's your birthday," Christian says softly. "And you have to stop thanking me." He rolls his eyes in exasperation, but fondly, I think.

"I just want you to know that I appreciate it."

"Anastasia, it's what I do." His expression is serious—of course, Christian in command and control. How could I forget . . . Would I want him any other way?

I smile. "Yes, it is."

He gives me a puzzled look then shakes his head. "Shall we go?"

"I'll just brush my teeth."

He smirks. "Okay."

Why is he smirking? The thought nags me as I head into the en suite. A memory springs unbidden to my mind. I used his toothbrush after I first spent the night with him. I smirk and grab his toothbrush in homage to that first time. Gazing at myself as I brush my teeth, I'm pale, too pale. But then I'm always pale.

The last time I was here I was single, and now I'm married at twenty-two! I'm getting old. I rinse out my mouth.

Holding up my wrist, I shake it, and the charms on my bracelet give a satisfying rattle. How does my sweet Fifty always know exactly the right thing to give me? I take a deep breath, attempting to stem the emotion still lurking in my system, and gaze down at the bracelet once more. I bet it cost a fortune. Ah . . . well.

He can afford it.

As we walk to the elevators, Christian takes my hand and kisses my knuckles, his thumb brushing over Charlie Tango on my bracelet. "You like?"

"More than like. I love it. Very much. Like you."

He smiles and kisses my knuckles once more. I feel lighter than I did yesterday. Perhaps because it's morning and the world always seems a more hopeful place than it does in the dead of night. Or maybe it's my husband's sweet wake-up. Or maybe it's knowing that Ray is no worse.

As we step into the empty elevator, I glance up at Christian. His eyes flicker quickly down to mine, and he smirks again.

"Don't," he whispers as the doors shut.

"Don't what?"

"Look at me like that."

"Fuck the paperwork," I mutter, grinning.

He laughs, and it's such a carefree, boyish sound. He tugs me into his arms and tilts my head up. "Someday, I'll rent this elevator for a whole afternoon."

"Just the afternoon?" I arch my brow.

"Mrs. Grey, you are greedy."

"When it comes to you, I am."

"I'm very glad to hear it." He kisses me gently.

And I don't know if it's because we are in this elevator or because he's not touched me in over twenty-four hours or if he's just my intoxicating husband, but desire unwinds and stretches lazily deep in my belly. I run my fingers into his hair and deepen the kiss, pushing him against the wall and bringing my body flush against his.

He groans into my mouth and cups my head, cradling me as we kiss—really kiss, our tongues exploring the oh-so-familiar but still oh-so-new, oh-so-exciting territory that is the other's mouth. My inner goddess swoons, bringing my libido back from purdah. I caress his dear, dear face in my hands.

"Ana," he breathes.

"I love you, Christian Grey. Don't forget that," I whisper as I gaze into darkening gray eyes.

The elevator comes smoothly to a halt and the doors open.

"Let's go and see your father before I decide to rent this today." He kisses me quickly, takes my hand, and leads me into the lobby.

As we walk past the concierge, Christian gives a discreet signal to the kindly middle-aged man standing behind the desk. He nods and picks up his phone. I glance questioningly at Christian, and he gives me his secret smile. I frown at him, and for a moment he looks nervous.

"Where's Taylor?" I ask.

"We'll see him shortly."

Of course, he's probably fetching the car. "Sawyer?"

"Running errands."

What errands?

Christian avoids the revolving door, and I know it's so he doesn't have to release my hand. The thought warms me. Outside it's a mild late-summer morning, but the scent of the coming fall is in the breeze. I glance around, looking for the Audi SUV and Taylor. No sign. Christian's hand tightens around mine, and I look up at him. He seems anxious.

"What is it?"

He shrugs. The hum of an approaching car engine distracts me. It's throaty . . . familiar. As I turn to find the source of the noise, it stops suddenly.

Taylor is climbing out of a sleek white sports car parked in front of us.

Oh shit! It's an R8. I whip my head back to Christian, who's watching me warily. "You can buy me one for my birthday . . . a white one, I think."

"Happy birthday," he says, and I know he's gauging my reaction. I gape at him because that's all I can do. He holds out a key.

"You are completely over the top," I whisper. He's bought me a fucking Audi R8! Holy shit. Just like I asked! My face splits in a huge grin, and my inner goddess does a backflip off the high dive. I jump up and down on the spot in a moment of unguarded and unbridled overexcitement. Christian's expression mirrors mine, and I dance forward into his waiting arms. He swings me around.

"You have more money than sense!" I whoop. "I love it! Thank you." He stops and dips me low suddenly, startling me, so that I have to grasp his upper arms.

"Anything for you, Mrs. Grey." He grins down at me. Oh my. What a very public display of affection. He bends and kisses me. "Come. Let's go see your dad."

"Yes. And I get to drive?"

He grins down at me. "Of course. It's yours." He stands me up and releases me, and I hurry around to the driver's door.

Taylor opens it for me, smiling broadly. "Happy birthday, Mrs. Grey."

"Thank you, Taylor." I startle him by giving him a swift hug, which he returns awkwardly. He's still blushing when I climb into the car, and he closes the door promptly once I'm inside.

"Drive safe, Mrs. Grey," he says gruffly. I beam up at him, barely able to contain my excitement.

"Will do." I promise, putting the key in the ignition as Christian stretches out beside me.

"Take it easy. Nobody chasing us now," he warns. When I turn the key, the engine thunders to life. I check the rearview and side mirrors, and spotting a rare moment of clear traffic, execute a huge perfect U-turn and roar off in the direction of OSHU.

"Whoa!" Christian exclaims, alarmed.

"What?"

"I don't want you in the ICU beside your father. Slow down," he growls, not to be argued with. I ease off the accelerator and grin at him.

"Better?"

"Much," he mutters, trying hard to look stern—and failing miserably.

Ray's condition is the same. Seeing him grounds me after the heady road trip here. I really should drive more carefully. You can't legislate for every drunk driver in this world. I must ask Christian what's become of the asshole who hit Ray—I'm sure he knows. In spite of the tubes, my father looks comfortable, and I think he has a little more color in his cheeks. While I tell him about my morning, Christian wanders off to the waiting room to make phone calls.

Nurse Kellie hovers, checking Ray's lines and making notes on his chart.

"All his signs are good, Mrs. Grey." She smiles kindly at me.

"That's very encouraging."

A little later Dr. Crowe appears with two nursing assistants and says warmly,

"Mrs. Grey, time to take your father up to radiology. We're giving him a CT scan.

To see how his brain is doing."

"Will you be long?"

"Up to an hour."

"I'll wait. I'd like to know."

"Sure thing, Mrs. Grey."

I wander into the thankfully empty waiting room where Christian is talking on the phone, pacing. As he speaks, he gazes out of the window at the panoramic view of Portland. He turns to me when I shut the door, and he looks angry.

"How far above the limit? . . . I see . . . All charges, everything. Ana's father is in the ICU—I want you to throw the fucking book at him, Dad . . . Good. Keep me informed." He hangs up.

"The other driver?"

He nods. "Some drunken trailer trash from Southeast Portland." He sneers, and I'm shocked by his terminology and his derisory tone. He walks over to me, and his tone softens.

"Finished with Ray? Do you want to go?"

"Um . . . no." I peer up at him, still reeling at his display of contempt.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Ray's being taken to radiology for a CT scan to check the swelling in his brain. I'd like to wait for the results."

"Okay. We'll wait." He sits down and holds out his arms. As we're alone, I go willingly and curl up in his lap.

"This is not how I envisaged spending today," Christian murmurs into my hair.

"Me neither, but I'm feeling more positive now. Your mom was very reassuring. It was kind of her to come last night."

Christian strokes my back and rests his chin on my head. "My mom is an amazing woman."

"She is. You're very lucky to have her."

Christian nods.

"I should call my mom. Tell her about Ray," I murmur and Christian stiffens.

"I'm surprised she hasn't called me." I frown in a moment of realization. In fact, I feel hurt. It's my birthday after all, and she was there when I was born. Why hasn't she called?

"Maybe she did," Christian says. I fish my BlackBerry out of my pocket. It shows no missed calls, but quite a few texts: happy birthdays from Kate, José, Mia, and Ethan. Nothing from my mother. I shake my head despondently.

"Call her now," he says softly. I do, but there's no reply, just the answering machine. I don't leave a message. How can my own mother forget my birthday?

"She's not there. I'll call later when I know the results of the brain scan."

Christian tightens his arms around me, nuzzling my hair once more, and wisely makes no comment on my mother's lack of maternal concern. I feel rather than hear the buzz of his BlackBerry. He doesn't let me stand up but fishes it awkwardly out of his pocket.

"Andrea," he snaps, businesslike again. I make another move to stand and he stops me, frowning and holding me tightly around my waist. I nestle back against his chest and listen to the one-sided conversation.

"Good . . . ETA is what time? . . . And the other, um . . . packages?" Christian glances at his watch. "Does the Heathman have all the details? . . . Good . . . Yes.

It can hold until Monday morning, but e-mail it just in case—I'll print, sign, and scan it back to you . . . They can wait. Go home, Andrea . . . No, we're good, thank you." He hangs up.

"Everything okay?"

"Yes."

"Is this your Taiwan thing?"

"Yes." He shifts beneath me.

"Am I too heavy?"

He snorts. "No, baby."

"Are you worried about the Taiwan thing?"

"No."

"I thought it was important."

"It is. The shipyard here depends on it. There are lots of jobs at stake."

Oh!

"We just have to sell it to the unions. That's Sam and Ros's job. But the way the economy's heading, none of us have a lot of choice."

I yawn.

"Am I boring you, Mrs. Grey?" He nuzzles my hair again, amused.

"No! Never . . . I'm just very comfortable on your lap. I like hearing about your business."

"You do?" He sounds surprised.

"Of course." I lean back to gaze directly at him. "I like hearing any bit of information you deign to share with me." I smirk, and he regards me with amusement and shakes his head.

"Always hungry for more information, Mrs. Grey."

"Tell me." I urge him as I snuggle up against his chest again.

"Tell you what?"

"Why you do it."

"Do what?"

"Work the way you do."

"A guy's got to earn a living." He's amused.

"Christian, you earn more than a living." My voice is full of irony. He frowns and is quiet for a moment. I think he's not going to divulge any secrets, but he surprises me.

"I don't want to be poor," he says, his voice low. "I've done that. I'm not going back there again. Besides . . . it's a game," he murmurs. "It's about winning.

A game I've always found very easy."

"Unlike life," I murmur to myself. Then I realize I said the words out loud.

"Yes, I suppose." He frowns. "Though it's easier with you."

Easier with me? I hug him tightly. "It can't all be a game. You're very philanthropic."

He shrugs, and I know he's growing uncomfortable. "About some things, maybe," he says quietly.

"I love philanthropic Christian," I murmur.

"Just him?"

"Oh, I love megalomaniac Christian, too, and control-freak Christian, sexpertise Christian, kinky Christian, romantic Christian, shy Christian . . . the list is endless."

"That's a whole lot of Christians."

"I'd say at least fifty."

He laughs. "Fifty Shades," he murmurs into my hair.

"My Fifty Shades."

He shifts, tipping my head back, and kisses me. "Well, Mrs. Shades, let's see how your dad is doing."

"Okay."

"Can we go for a drive?"

Christian and I are back in the R8, and I'm feeling giddily buoyant. Ray's brain is back to normal—all swelling gone. Dr. Sluder has decided to wake him from his coma tomorrow. She says she's pleased with his progress.

"Sure." Christian grins at me. "It's your birthday—we can do anything you want."

Oh! His tone makes me turn and gaze at him. His eyes are dark.

"Anything?"

"Anything."

How much promise can he load into one word? "Well, I want to drive."

"Then drive, baby." He grins, and I grin back.

My car handles like a dream, and as we hit the I-5, I subtly put my foot down, forcing us both back in our seats.

"Steady, baby," Christian warns.

As we drive back into Portland, an idea occurs to me.

"Have you planned lunch?" I ask Christian tentatively.

"No. You're hungry?" He sounds hopeful.

"Yes."

"Where do you want to go? It's your day, Ana."

"I know just the place."

I pull up near the gallery where José exhibited his work and park right outside the Le Picotin restaurant where we went after José's show.

Christian grins. "For one minute I thought you were going to take me to that dreadful bar you drunk dialed me from."

"Why would I do that?"

"To check the azaleas are still alive." He arches a sardonic brow.

I blush. "Don't remind me! Besides . . . you still took me to your hotel room."

I smirk.

"Best decision I ever made," he says, his eyes soft and warm.

"Yes. It was." I lean over and kiss him.

"Do you think that supercilious fucker is still waiting tables?" Christian asks.

"Supercilious? I thought he was fine."

"He was trying to impress you."

"Well, he succeeded."

Christian's mouth twists in amused disgust.

"Shall we go see?" I offer.

"Lead on, Mrs. Grey."

After lunch and a quick detour to the Heathman to pick up Christian's laptop, we return to the hospital. I spend the afternoon with Ray, reading aloud from one of the manuscripts I've been sent. My only accompaniment is the sound of the machinery keeping him alive, keeping him with me. Now that I know he's making progress, I can breathe a little easier and relax. I'm hopeful. He just needs time to get well. I've got time—I can give him that. I wonder idly if I should try calling Mom again, but decide to do it later. I hold Ray's hand loosely as I read to him, squeezing it occasionally, willing him to be well. His fingers feel soft and warm beneath my touch. He still has the indentation on his finger where he wore his wedding ring—even after all this time.

An hour or two later, I don't know how long, I glance up to see Christian, laptop in hand, standing at the end of Ray's bed with Nurse Kellie.

"It's time to go, Ana."

Oh. I clasp Ray's hand tightly. I don't want to leave him.

"I want to feed you. Come. It's late." Christian sounds insistent.

"I'm about to give Mr. Steele a sponge bath," Nurse Kellie says.

"Okay." I concede. "We'll be back tomorrow morning."

I kiss Ray on his cheek, feeling his unfamiliar stubble beneath my lips. I don't like it . Keep getting better, Daddy. I love you.

"I thought we'd dine downstairs. In a private room," Christian says, a gleam in his eye as he opens the door to our suite.

"Really? Finish what you started a few months ago?"

He smirks. "If you're very lucky, Mrs. Grey."

I laugh. "Christian, I don't have anything dressy to wear."

He smiles, holds out his hand, and leads me into the bedroom. He opens the wardrobe to reveal a large white dress bag hanging inside.

"Taylor?" I ask.

"Christian," he replies, forceful and wounded at once. His tone makes me laugh. Unzipping the bag, I find a navy satin dress and ease it out. It's gorgeous—fitted with thin straps. It looks small.

"It's lovely. Thank you. I hope it fits."

"It will," he says confidently. "And here"—he picks up a shoebox—"shoes to match." He gives me a wolfish smile.

"You think of everything. Thank you." I stretch up and kiss him.

"I do." He hands me yet another bag.

I gaze at him quizzically. Inside is a black strapless bodysuit with a central panel of lace. He caresses my face, tilts my chin, and kisses me.

"I look forward to taking this off you later."

Fresh out of my bath, washed, shaved and feeling pampered, I sit on the edge of the bed and start up the hair dryer. Christian wanders into the bedroom. I think he's been working.

"Here, let me," he says, pointing to the chair in front of the dressing table.

"Dry my hair?"

He nods. I blink at him.

"Come," he says, regarding me intently. I know that expression, and I know better than to disobey. Slowly and methodically he dries my hair, one lock at a time. He's obviously done this before . . . often.

"You're no stranger to this," I murmur. His smile is reflected in the mirror, but he says nothing and continues to brush through my hair. Hmm . . . it's very relaxing.

When we step into the elevator on our way to dinner, we are not alone. Christian looks delicious in his signature white linen shirt, black jeans and jacket. No tie.

The two women inside shoot admiring glances at him and less generous ones at me. I hide my smile. Yes, ladies, he's mine. Christian takes my hand and pulls me close as we travel in silence down to the mezzanine level.

It's busy, full of people dressed up for the evening, sitting around chatting and drinking, starting their Saturday night. I am grateful that I fit in. The dress hugs me, skimming over my curves and holding everything in place. I have to say, I feel . . . attractive wearing it. I know Christian approves.

At first, I think we're heading for the private dining room where we first discussed the contract, but he leads me past that doorway and on to the far end where he opens the door to another wood paneled room.

"Surprise! "

Oh, my. Kate and Elliot, Mia and Ethan, Carrick and Grace, Mr. Rodriguez and José, and my mother and Bob are all there raising their glasses. I stand gaping at them, speechless. How? When? I turn in consternation to Christian, and he squeezes my hand. My mom steps forward and wraps her arms around me. Oh, Mom!

"Darling, you look beautiful. Happy birthday."

"Mom!" I sob, embracing her. Oh Mommy. Tears stream down my face despite the audience, and I bury my face in her neck.

"Honey, darling. Don't cry. Ray will be okay. He's such a strong man. Don't cry. Not on your birthday." Her voice cracks, but she maintains her composure.

She grasps my face in her hands and with her thumbs wipes away my tears.

"I thought you'd forgotten."

"Oh, Ana! How could I? Seventeen hours of labor is not something you easily forget."

I giggle through my tears, and she smiles.

"Dry your eyes, honey. Lots of people are here to share your special day."

I sniffle, not wanting to look at anyone else in the room, embarrassed and thrilled that everyone has made such an effort to come and see me.

"How did you get here? When did you arrive?"

"Your husband sent his plane, darling." She grins, impressed.

And I laugh. "Thank you for coming, Mom." She wipes my nose with a tissue as only a mother would. "Mom!" I scold, composing myself.

"That's better. Happy birthday, darling." She steps aside while everyone lines up to hug me and wish me happy birthday.

"He's doing well, Ana. Dr. Sluder is the one of the best in the country. Happy birthday, Angel." Grace hugs me.

"You cry all you want to, Ana—it's your party." José embraces me.

"Happy birthday, darling girl." Carrick smiles, cupping my face.

"S'up babe? Your old man will be fine." Elliot enfolds me in his arms.

"Happy birthday."

"Okay." Taking my hand, Christian pulls me from Elliot's embrace. "Enough fondling my wife. Go fondle your fiancée."

Elliot grins wickedly at him and winks at Kate.

A waiter I hadn't noticed before presents Christian and me with glasses of pink champagne.

Christian clears his throat. "This would be a perfect day if Ray were here with us, but he's not far away. He's doing well, and I know he'd like you to enjoy yourself, Ana. To all of you, thank you for coming to share my beautiful wife's birthday, the first of many to come. Happy birthday, my love." Christian raises his glass to me amid a chorus of happy birthdays, and I have to fight again to keep my tears at bay.

I watch the animated conversations around the dinner table. It's strange to be cocooned in the bosom of my family, knowing the man I consider my father is on a life support machine in the cold clinical environs of the ICU. I'm detached from the proceedings but grateful that they're all here. Watching the sparring between Elliot and Christian, José's ready warm wit, Mia's excitement and her enthusiasm for the food, Ethan slyly watching her. I think he likes her . . . though it's hard to tell. Mr. Rodriguez is sitting back, like me, enjoying the conversations. He looks better. Rested. José is very attentive to him, cutting his food, keeping his glass filled. Having his surviving parent come so close to death has made José appreciate Mr. Rodriguez more . . . I know.

I gaze at Mom. She's in her element, charming, witty, and warm. I love her so much. I must remember to tell her. Life is so precious, I realize that now.

"You okay?" Kate asks in an uncharacteristically gentle voice.

I nod and clasp her hand. "Yes. Thanks for coming."

"You think Mr. Megabucks could keep me away from you on your birthday?

We got to fly in the helicopter!" She grins.

"Really?"

"Yes. All of us. And to think Christian can fly it."

I nod.

"That's kinda hot."

"Yeah, I think so."

We grin.

"Are you staying here tonight?" I ask.

"Yes. We all are, I think. You knew nothing about this?"

I shake my head.

"Smooth, isn't he?"

I nod.

"What did he get you for your birthday?"

"This." I hold up my bracelet.

"Oh, cute!"

"Yes."

"London, Paris . . . ice cream?"

"You don't want to know."

"I can guess."

We laugh, and I blush, recalling Ben & Jerry's & Ana.

"Oh . . . and an R8."

Kate spits her wine rather unattractively down her chin, making us both laugh some more.

"Over the top bastard, isn't he?" She giggles.

For dessert I am presented with a sumptuous chocolate cake blazing with twenty-two silver candles and a rousing chorus of "Happy Birthday." Grace watches Christian singing with the rest of my friends and family, and her eyes shine with love. Catching my eye, she blows me a kiss.

"Make a wish," Christian whispers to me. In one breath I blow out all the candles, fervently willing my father better. Daddy, get well. Please get well. I love you so.

At midnight, Mr. Rodriguez and José take their leave.

"Thank you so much for coming." I hug José tightly.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world. Glad Ray's heading in the right direction."

"Yes. You, Mr. Rodriguez, and Ray have to come fishing with Christian in Aspen."

"Yeah? Sounds cool." José grins before he leaves to fetch his father's coat, and I crouch down to say good-bye to Mr. Rodriguez.

"You know Ana, there was a time . . . well, I thought you and José . . ." His voice fades, and he gazes at me, his dark gaze intense but loving.

Oh no.

"I'm very fond of your son, Mr. Rodriguez, but he's like a brother to me."

"You would have made one fine daughter-in-law. And you do. To the Greys." He smiles wistfully and I blush.

"I hope you'll settle for friend."

"Of course. Your husband is a fine man. You chose well, Ana."

"I think so," I whisper. "I love him so." I hug Mr. Rodriguez.

"Treat him good, Ana."

"I will," I promise.

Christian closes the door to our suite.

"Alone at last," he murmurs, leaning back against the door, watching me.

I step toward him and run my fingers over the lapels of his jacket. "Thank you for a wonderful birthday. You really are the most thoughtful, considerate, generous husband."

"My pleasure."

"Yes . . . your pleasure. Let's do something about that," I whisper. Tightening my hands around his lapels, I pull his lips to mine.

After a communal breakfast, I open all my presents then give a series of cheery good-byes to all the Greys and the Kavanaghs who will be returning to Seattle via Charlie Tango. My mom, Christian, and I head up to the hospital with Taylor driving since the three of us would not fit into my R8. Bob has declined to visit, and I'm secretly glad. It'd be just too weird, and I'm sure Ray wouldn't appreciate Bob seeing him at anything less than his best.

Ray looks much the same. Hairier. Mom is shocked when she sees him, and together we cry a little more.

"Oh, Ray." She squeezes his hand and gently strokes his face, and I'm moved to see her love for her ex-husband. I'm glad I have tissues in my purse. We sit beside him, me holding her hand while she holds his.

"Ana, there was a time when this man was the center of my world. The sun rose and set with him. I'll always love him. He's taken such good care of you."

"Mom—" I choke and she strokes my face and tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear.

"You know I'll always love Ray. We just drifted apart." She sighs. "And I just couldn't live with him." She gazes down at her fingers, and I wonder if she's thinking about Steve, Husband Number Three, who we don't talk about.

"I know you love Ray," I whisper, drying my eyes. "They're going to bring him out of his coma today."

"Good. I'm sure he'll be fine. He's so stubborn. I think you learned it from him."

I smile. "Have you been talking to Christian?"

"Does he think you're stubborn?"

"I believe so."

"I'll tell him it's a family trait. You look so good together, Ana. So happy."

"We are, I think. Getting there, anyway. I love him. He's the center of my world. The sun rises and sets with him for me, too."

"He obviously adores you, darling."

"And I adore him."

"Make sure you tell him. Men need to hear that stuff just like we do."

I insist on going to the airport with Mom and Bob to say good-bye. Taylor follows in the R8, and Christian drives the SUV. I'm sorry they can't stay longer, but they have to get back to Savannah. It's a tearful good-bye.

"Take good care of her, Bob," I whisper as he hugs me.

"Sure will, Ana. And you look after yourself."

"Will do." I turn to my mother. "Good-bye, Mom. Thank you for coming," I whisper, my voice hoarse. "I love you so much."

"Oh my darling girl, I love you, too. And Ray will be fine. He's not ready to shuffle off his mortal coil just yet. There's probably a Mariners game he can't miss."

I giggle. She's right. I resolve to read the sports pages of the Sunday newspaper to Ray that evening. I watch her and Bob climb the steps into the GEH jet. She gives me a tearful wave, then she's gone. Christian wraps his arm around my shoulder.

"Let's head back, baby," he murmurs

"Will you drive?"

"Sure."

When we return to the hospital that evening, Ray looks different. It takes me a moment to realize that the suck and push of the ventilator has vanished. Ray is breathing on his own. Relief floods through me . I stroke his stubbly face, and taking out a tissue to gently wipe, the spittle from his mouth.

Christian stalks off to find Dr. Sluder or Dr. Crowe for an update, while I take my familiar seat beside his bed to keep a watchful vigil.

I unfold the sports section of the Sunday Oregonian and conscientiously begin reading out the report about the Sounders soccer game against Real Salt Lake.

By all accounts, it was a wild game, but the Sounders were defeated by an own goal from Kasey Keller. I grip Ray's hand firmly in mine as I read it through.

"And the final score, Sounders 1, Real Salt Lake 2."

"Hey, Annie, we lost? No!" Ray rasps, and he squeezes my hand.

Daddy!

Chapter Nineteen

Tears stream down my face. He's back. My daddy is back.

"Don't cry, Annie." Ray's voice is hoarse. "What's happening?"

I take up his hand in both of mine and cradle it against my face. "You've been in an accident. You're in the hospital in Portland."

Ray frowns, and I don't know if it's because he's uncomfortable with my uncharacteristic display of affection, or that he can't remember the accident.

"Do you want some water?" I ask, though I'm not sure if I'm allowed to give him any. He nods, bewildered. My heart swells. I stand up and lean over him, kissing his forehead. "I love you, Daddy. Welcome back."

He waves his hand, embarrassed. "Me, too, Annie. Water." I run the short distance to the nurses' station.

"My dad—he's awake!" I beam at Nurse Kellie, who smiles back.

"Page Dr. Sluder," she says to her colleague and hurriedly makes her way around the desk.

"He wants water."

"I'll bring him some."

I skip back to my father's bed, I feel so light-hearted. His eyes are closed when I reach him, and I immediately worry that he's slipped back into a coma.

"Daddy?"

"I'm here," he mutters and his eyes flutter open as Nurse Kellie appears with a jug of ice chips and a glass.

"Hello, Mr. Steele. I'm Kellie, your nurse. Your daughter tells me you're thirsty."

In the waiting room, Christian is staring fixedly at his laptop, deep in concentra-tion. He glances up when I close the door.

"He's awake," I announce. He smiles, and the tension around his eyes vanishes. Oh . . . I hadn't noticed before. Has he been tense all this time? He sets his laptop aside, stands, and embraces me.

"How is he?" he asks as I wrap my arms around him.

"Talking, thirsty, bewildered. He doesn't remember the accident at all."

"That's understandable. Now that he's awake, I want to get him moved to Seattle. Then we can go home, and my mom can keep an eye on him."

Already?

"I'm not sure he's well enough to be moved."

"I'll talk to Dr. Sluder. Get her opinion."

"You miss home?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

"You haven't stopped smiling," Christian says as I pull up outside the Heathman.

"I'm very relieved. And happy."

Christian grins. "Good."

The light is fading, and I shiver as I step out into the cool, crisp evening and hand my key to the parking valet. He's eyeing my car with lust, and I don't blame him. Christian puts his arm around me.

"Shall we celebrate?" he asks as we enter the foyer.

"Celebrate?"

"Your dad."

I giggle. "Oh, him."

"I've missed that sound." Christian kisses my hair.

"Can we just eat in our room? You know, have a quiet night in?"

"Sure. Come." Taking my hand, he leads me to the elevators.

"That was delicious," I murmur with satisfaction as I push my plate away, replete for the first time in ages. "They sure know how to make a fine tarte Tatin here."

I am freshly bathed and wearing only Christian's T-shirt and my panties. In the background, Christian's iPod is on shuffle and Dido is warbling on about white flags.

Christian eyes me speculatively. His hair is still damp from our bath, and he's wearing just his black T-shirt and jeans. "That's the most I've seen you eat the entire time we've been here," he says.

"I was hungry."

He leans back in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk and takes a sip of his white wine. "What would you like to do now?" His voice is soft.

"What do you want to do?"

He raises an eyebrow, amused. "What I always want to do."

"And that is?"

"Mrs. Grey, don't be coy."

Reaching across the dining table, I grasp his hand, turn it over, and skim my index finger over his palm. "I'd like you to touch me with this." I run my finger up his index finger.

He shifts in his chair. "Just that?" His eyes darken and heat at once.

"Maybe this?" I run my finger up his middle finger and back to his palm.

"And this." My nail traces his ring finger. "Definitely this." My finger stops at his wedding ring. "This is very sexy."

"Is it, now?"

"It sure is. It says this man is mine." And I skim the small callous that has already formed on his palm beneath the ring. He leans forward and cups my chin with his other hand.

"Mrs. Grey, are you seducing me?"

"I hope so."

"Anastasia, I'm a given." His voice is low. "Come here." He tugs my hand, pulling me onto his lap. "I like having unfettered access to you." He runs a hand up my thigh to my behind. He grasps the nape of my neck with his other hand and kisses me, holding me firmly in place.

He tastes of white wine and apple pie and Christian. I run my fingers through his hair, holding him to me while our tongues explore and curl and twist around each other, my blood heating in my veins. We're breathless when Christian pulls away.

"Let's go to bed," he murmurs against my lips.

"Bed?"

He pulls back further and tugs my hair so I am looking up at him. "Where would you prefer, Mrs. Grey?"

My inner goddess stops stuffing her face with tarte Tatin. I shrug, feigning indifference. "Surprise me."

He smirks. "You're feisty this evening." He runs his nose along mine.

"Maybe I need to be restrained."

"Maybe you do. You're getting mighty bossy in your old age." He narrows his eyes, but can't disguise the latent humor there.

"What are you going to do about it?" I challenge.

His eyes glitter. "I know what I'd like to do about it. Depends if you're up to it."

"Oh, Mr. Grey, you've been very gentle with me these last couple of days.

I'm not made of glass, you know."

"You don't like gentle?"

"With you, of course. But you know . . . variety is the spice of life." I bat my lashes at him.

"You're after something less gentle?"

"Something life-affirming."

He raises his brows in surprise. "Life-affirming," he repeats, astonished humor in his voice.

I nod. He gazes at me for a moment. "Don't bite your lip," he whispers then rises suddenly with me in his arms. I gasp and grab his biceps, fearful that he'll drop me. He walks over to the smallest of the three couches and deposits me on to it.

"Wait here. Don't move." He gives me a brief hot, intense look and turns on his heel, stalking toward the bedroom. Oh . . . Christian barefoot. Why are his feet so hot? He's back a few moments later, taking me by surprise as he leans over me from behind.

"I think we'll dispense with this." He grabs my T-shirt and drags it over my head, leaving me naked except for my panties. He pulls my ponytail back and kisses me.

"Stand up," he orders against my lips and releases me. I comply immediately.

He lays a towel out on the sofa.

Towel?

"Take your panties off."

I swallow but do as I'm told, discarding them by the sofa.

"Sit." He grabs my ponytail again and pulls my head back. "You'll tell me to stop if this gets too much, yes?"

I nod.

"Say it." His voice is stern.

"Yes," I squeak.

He smirks. "Good. So, Mrs. Grey . . . by popular demand, I'm going to restrain you." His voice drops to a breathless whisper. Desire streaks through my body like lightning simply at those words. Oh, my sweet Fifty—on the sofa?

"Bring your knees up," he commands softly. "And sit right back."

I rest my feet on the edge of the sofa, my knees up in front of me. He reaches for my left leg, and taking the belt from one of the bathroom robes, he ties one end above my knee.

"Bathrobes?"

"I'm improvising." He smirks again and fastens the slipknot above my knee and ties the other end of the soft belt around the finial at the back corner of the sofa, effectively parting my legs.

"Don't move," he warns and repeats the process with my right leg, tying the second cord to the other finial.

Oh my . . . I am sitting up, splayed out on the sofa, legs spread wide.

"Okay?" Christian asks softly, gazing down at me from behind the sofa.

I nod, expecting him to tie my hands, too. But he refrains. He bends and kisses me.

"You have no idea how hot you look right now," he murmurs and rubs his nose against mine. "Change of music, I think." He stands and strolls casually over to the iPod dock.

How does he do this? Here I am, trussed up and horny as hell, while he's so cool and calm. He's just in my field of vision, and I watch the flex and pull of the muscles of his back under his T-shirt as he changes the song. Immediately, a sweet, almost childlike female voice starts to sing about watching me.

Oh, I like this song.

Christian turns and his eyes lock on mine as he moves around to the front of the sofa and sinks gracefully to his knees in front of me.

Suddenly, I feel very exposed.

"Exposed? Vulnerable?" he asks with his uncanny ability to voice my unspoken words. His hands are on his knees. I nod.

Why doesn't he touch me?

"Good," he murmurs. "Hold out your hands." I can't look away from his mesmerizing eyes as I do what he asks. Christian pours a little oily liquid onto each palm from a small clear bottle. It's scented—a rich, musky, sensuous scent that I can't place.

"Rub your hands." I squirm beneath his hot, heavy gaze. "Keep still," he warns.

Oh my.

"Now, Anastasia, I want you to touch yourself."

Holy cow.

"Start at your throat and work down."

I hesitate.

"Don't be shy, Ana. Come. Do it." The humor and challenge in his expression is plain to see along with his desire.

The sweet voice sings that there's nothing sweet about her. I place my hands against my throat and let them slide down to the top of my breasts. The oil makes them glide effortlessly over my skin. My hands are warm.

"Lower," Christian murmurs, his eyes darkening. He doesn't touch me.

My hands cup my breasts.

"Tease yourself."

Oh my. I tug gently on my nipples.

"Harder," Christian urges. He sits immobile between my thighs, just watching me. "Like I would," he adds, his eyes shining darkly. My muscles clench deep in my belly. I groan in response and pull harder on my nipples, feeling them stiffen and lengthen beneath my touch.

"Yes. Like that. Again."

Closing my eyes I pull hard, rolling and twisting them between my fingers. I moan.

"Open your eyes."

I blink up at him.

"Again. I want to see you. See you enjoy your touch."

Oh fuck. I repeat the process. This is so . . . erotic.

"Hands. Lower."

I squirm.

"Keep still, Ana. Absorb the pleasure. Lower." His voice is low and husky, tempting and beguiling at once.

"You do it," I whisper.

"Oh, I will—soon. You. Lower. Now." Christian, exuding sensuality, runs his tongue along his teeth Holy fuck . . . I writhe, pulling on the restraints.

He shakes his head, slowly. "Still." He rests his hands on my knees, holding me in place. "Come on, Ana—lower."

My hands glide over my stomach down over my belly.

"Lower," he mouths, and he is carnality personified.

"Christian, please."

His hands glide down from my knees, skimming my thighs, toward my sex.

"Come on, Ana. Touch yourself."

My left hand skims over my sex, and I rub in a slow circle, my mouth an O as I pant.

"Again," he whispers.

I groan louder and repeat the move and tip my head back, gasping.

"Again."

I moan loudly, and Christian inhales sharply. Grabbing my hands, he bends down, running his nose then his tongue back and forth at the apex of my thighs.

"Ah!"

I want to touch him, but when I try to move my hands, his fingers tighten around my wrists.

"I'll restrain these, too. Keep still."

I groan. He releases me then eases his middle two fingers inside me, the heel of his hand resting against my clitoris.

"I'm going to make you come quickly, Ana. Ready?"

"Yes." I pant.

He starts to move his fingers, his hand, up and down, rapidly, assaulting both that sweet spot inside me and my clitoris at the same time. Ah! The feeling is intense—really intense. Pleasure builds and spikes throughout the lower half of my body. I want to stretch my legs, but I can't. My hands claw at the towel beneath me.

"Surrender," Christian whispers.

I explode around his fingers, crying out incoherently. He presses the heel of his hand against my clitoris as the aftershocks run through my body, prolonging the delicious agony. Vaguely, I'm aware that he's untying my legs.

"My turn," he murmurs, and flips me over so I am face down on the sofa with my knees on the floor. He spreads my legs and slaps me hard across my behind.

"Ah!" I yelp and he slams into me.

"Oh, Ana," he hisses through clenched teeth as he starts to move. His fingers grip me hard around my hips as he grinds into me over and over. And I'm building again . No . . . Ah . . .

"Come on, Ana!" Christian shouts, and I shatter once more, pulsing around him and crying out as I come.

"Life-affirming enough for you?" Christian kisses my hair.

"Oh, yes," I murmur, gazing up at the ceiling. I am lying on my husband, my back to his front, both of us on the floor beside the sofa. He's still dressed.

"I think we should go again. No clothes for you this time."

"Christ, Ana. Give a man a chance."

I giggle and he chuckles. "I'm glad Ray's conscious. Seems all your appetites are back," he says, not disguising the smile in his voice.

I turn over and scowl at him. "Are you forgetting about last night and this morning?" I pout.

"Nothing forgettable about either of those." He grins, and when he does, he looks so young and carefree and happy. He cups my behind. "You have a fantastic ass, Mrs. Grey."

"So do you." I arch a brow at him. "Though yours is still under cover."

"And what are you going to do about that, Mrs. Grey?"

"Why, I'm going to undress you, Mr. Grey. All of you."

He grins.

"And I think there's a lot that's sweet about you," I murmur, referring to the song still playing on repeat. His smile fades.

Oh no.

"You are," I whisper. I lean down and kiss the corner of his mouth. He closes his eyes and tightens his arms around me.

"Christian, you are. You made this weekend so special—in spite of what happened to Ray. Thank you."

He opens his large, serious gray eyes, and his expression tugs at my heart.

"Because I love you," he murmurs.

"I know. I love you, too." I caress his face. "And you're precious to me, too.

You do know that, don't you?"

His stills, looking lost.

Oh, Christian . . . my sweet Fifty.

"Believe me," I whisper.

"It's not easy." His voice is almost inaudible.

"Try. Try hard, because it's true." I stroke his face once more, my fingers brushing against his sideburns. His eyes are gray oceans of loss and hurt and pain.

I want to climb into his body and hold him. Anything to stop that look. When will he realize that he means the world to me? That he's more than worthy of my love, the love of his parents—his siblings? I have told him over and over, and yet here we are as Christian gives me his lost, abandoned look. Time. It will just take time.

"You'll get cold. Come." He rises gracefully to his feet and pulls me up to stand beside him. I slip my arm around his waist as we wander back into the bedroom. I won't push him, but since Ray's accident, it's become more important to me that he knows how much I love him.

As we enter the bedroom, I frown, desperate to recover the very welcome lighthearted mood of only a few moments ago.

"Shall we watch TV?" I ask.

Christian snorts. "I was hoping for round two." And my mercurial Fifty is back. I arch my brow and stop by the bed.

"Well, in that case, I think I'll be in charge."

He gapes at me, and I push him onto the bed and quickly straddle him, pinning his hands down beside his head.

He grins up at me. "Well, Mrs. Grey, now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?"

I lean down and whisper in his ear, "I am going to fuck you with my mouth."

He closes his eyes, inhaling sharply, and I run my teeth gently along his jaw.

Christian is working at the computer. It's a bright early morning, and he's tapping out an e-mail, I think.

"Good morning," I murmur shyly from the doorway. He turns and smiles at me.

"Mrs. Grey. You're up early." He holds open his arms.

I bolt across the suite and curl into his lap. "As are you."

"I was just working." He shifts as he kisses my hair.

"What?" I ask, sensing something wrong.

He sighs. "I got an e-mail from Detective Clark. He wants to talk to you about that fucker Hyde."

"Really?" I sit back to gaze at Christian.

"Yes. I told him you're in Portland for the time being, so he'll have to wait.

But he says he'd like to interview you here."

"He's coming here?"

"Apparently so." Christian looks bemused.

I frown. "What's so important that can't wait?"

"Exactly."

"When's he coming?"

"Today. I'll e-mail him back."

"I have nothing to hide. I wonder what he wants to know?"

"We'll find out when he gets here. I'm intrigued, too." Christian shifts again.

"Breakfast will be here shortly. Let's eat, then we can go and see your dad."

I nod. "You can stay here if you want. I can see you're busy."

He scowls. "No, I want to come with you."

"Okay." I grin, and wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him.

Ray is bad-tempered. It's a joy. He's itchy, scratchy, impatient, and uncomfortable.

"Dad, you've been in a major car accident. It will take time to heal. Christian and I want to move you to Seattle."

"I don't know why you're bothering with me. I'll be fine here on my own."

"Don't be ridiculous." I squeeze his hand fondly, and he has the grace to smile at me.

"Do you need anything?"

"I could murder a doughnut, Annie."

I grin indulgently at him. "I'll get you a doughnut or two. We'll go to Voodoo."

"Great!"

"You want some decent coffee, too?"

"Hell yeah!"

"Okay, I'll go get some."

Christian is once more in the waiting room, talking on the phone. He really should set up office in here. Weirdly, he's by himself, although the other ICU beds are occupied. I wonder if Christian's frightened off the other visitors. He hangs up.

"Clark will be here at four this afternoon."

I frown. What could be so urgent? "Okay. Ray wants coffee and doughnuts."

Christian laughs. "I think I would too if I'd been in an accident. Ask Taylor to go."

"No, I'll go."

"Take Taylor with you." His voice is stern.

"Okay." I roll my eyes and he glares. Then he smirks and cocks his head to one side.

"There's no one here." His voice is deliciously low, and I know he's threatening to spank me. I am about to dare him, when a young couple enters the room.

She is weeping softly.

I shrug apologetically at Christian, and he nods. He picks up his laptop, takes my hand, and leads me out of the room. "They need the privacy more than we do," Christian murmurs. "We'll have our fun later."

Outside Taylor is waiting patiently. "Let's all go get coffee and doughnuts."

At four o'clock precisely there's a knock on the suite door. Taylor ushers in Detective Clark, who looks more bad-tempered than usual. He always seems to look bad-tempered. Perhaps it's the way his face is set.

"Mr. Grey, Mrs. Grey, thank you for seeing me."

"Detective Clark." Christian shakes his hand and directs him to a seat. I sit down on the sofa where I enjoyed myself so much last night. The thought makes me blush.

"It's Mrs. Grey I wish to see," Clark says pointedly to Christian and to Taylor stationed beside the door. Christian glances then nods almost imperceptibly at Taylor who turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

"Anything you wish to say to my wife you can say in front of me." Christian's voice is cool and businesslike. Detective Clark turns to me.

"Are you sure you'd like your husband to be present?"

I frown at him. "Of course. I have nothing to hide. You are just interviewing me?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'd like my husband to stay."

Christian sits beside me, radiating tension.

"All right," murmurs Clark, resigned. He clears his throat. "Mrs. Grey, Mr.

Hyde maintains that you sexually harassed him and made several lewd advances toward him."

Oh! I almost burst out laughing, but put my hand on Christian's thigh to restrain him as he shifts forward in his seat.

"That's preposterous," Christian splutters. I squeeze Christian's leg to silence him.

"That's not true," I state calmly. "In fact, it was the other way around. He propositioned me in a very aggressive manner, and he was fired."

Detective Clark's mouth flattens briefly into a thin line before he continues.

"Hyde alleges that you fabricated a tale about sexual harassment in order to get him fired. He says that you did this because he refused your advances and because you wanted his job."

I frown. Holy crap. Jack is even more delusional than I thought."That's not true." I shake my head.

"Detective, please don't tell me you have driven all this way to harass my wife with these ridiculous accusations."

Detective Clark turns his steely blue glare on Christian. "I need to hear this from Mrs. Grey, sir," he says with quiet restraint. I squeeze Christian's leg once more, silently imploring him to keep his cool.

"You don't have to listen to this shit, Ana."

"I think I should let Detective Clark know what happened."

Christian gazes at me impassively for a beat then waves his hand in a gesture of resignation.

"What Hyde says is simply not true." My voice sounds calm, although I feel anything but. I'm bewildered by these accusations and nervous that Christian might explode. What's Jack's game? "Mr. Hyde accosted me in the office kitchen one evening. He told me that it was thanks to him that I had been hired and that he expected sexual favors in return. He tried to blackmail me, using e-mails that I'd sent to Christian, who wasn't my husband then. I didn't know Hyde had been monitoring my e-mails. He's delusional—he even accused me of being a spy sent by Christian, presumably to help him take over the company. He didn't know that Christian had already bought SIP." I shake my head as I recall my distressing, tense encounter with Hyde.

"In the end, I-I took him down."

Clark's eyebrows rise in surprise. "Took him down?"

"My father is ex-army. Hyde . . . um, touched me, and I know how to defend myself."

Christian glances at me with a brief look of pride.

"I see." Clark leans back on the sofa, sighing heavily.

"Have you spoken to any of Hyde's former PAs?" Christian asks almost genially.

"Yes, we have. But the truth is we can't get any of his assistants to talk to us.

They all say he was an exemplary boss, even though none of them lasted more than three months."

"We've had that problem, too," Christian murmurs.

Oh? I gape at Christian as does Detective Clark.

"My security chief. He's interviewed Hyde's past five PAs."

"And why's that?"

Christian gives him a steely glare. "Because my wife worked for him, and I run security checks on anyone my wife works with."

Detective Clark flushes. I shrug apologetically at him with a welcome-to-my-world smile.

"I see," Clark murmurs. "I think there's more to this than meets the eye, Mr.

Grey. We are conducting a more thorough search of his apartment tomorrow, so maybe something will present itself then. Though by all accounts he hasn't lived there for some time."

"You've searched already?"

"Yes. We're doing it again. A fingertip search this time."

"You've still not charged him with the attempted murder of Ros Bailey and myself?" Christian says softly.

What?

"We're hoping to find more evidence in regard to the sabotage of your aircraft, Mr. Grey. We need more than a partial print, and while he's in custody, we can build a case."

"Is this all you came down here for?"

Clark bristles. "Yes, Mr. Grey, it is, unless you've had any further thoughts about the note?"

Note? What note?

"No. I told you. It means nothing to me." Christian cannot hide his irritation.

"And I don't see why we couldn't have done this over the phone."

"I think I told you I prefer a hands-on approach. And I'm visiting my great-aunt who lives in Portland—two birds . . . one stone." Clark remains stony faced and unfazed by my husband's bad temper.

"Well, if we're all done, I have work to attend to." Christian stands and Detective Clark follows his cue.

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Grey," he says politely.

I nod.

"Mr. Grey." Christian opens the door, and Clark leaves.

I sag into the sofa.

"Can you believe that asshole?" Christian explodes.

"Clark?"

"No. That fucker, Hyde."

"No, I can't."

"What's his fucking game?" Christian whispers through gritted teeth.

"I don't know. Do you think Clark believed me?"

"Of course he did. He knows Hyde is a fucked-up asshole."

"You're very sweary."

"Sweary?" Christian smirks. "Is that even a word?"

"It is now."

Unexpectedly he grins and sits down beside me, pulling me into his arms.

"Don't think about that fucker. Let's go see your dad and try to talk about the move tomorrow."

"He was adamant that he wanted to stay in Portland and not be a bother."

"I'll talk to him."

"I want to travel with him."

Christian gazes at me, and for a moment, I think he's going to say no. "Okay.

I'll come, too. Sawyer and Taylor can take the cars. I'll let Sawyer drive your R8 tonight."

The following day Ray is examining his new surroundings—an airy, light, room in the rehabilitation center of Northwest Hospital in Seattle. It's noon, and he looks sleepy. The journey, via helicopter no less, has exhausted him.

"Tell Christian I appreciate this," he says quietly.

"You can tell him yourself. He'll be along this evening."

"Aren't you going to work?"

"Probably. I just want to make sure you're settled in here."

"You get along. You don't need to worry about me."

"I like worrying about you. My BlackBerry buzzes. I check the number—it's not one I recognize.

"You going to answer that?" Ray asks.

"No. I don't know who it is. The voice mail can take it for me. I brought you something to read." I indicate the pile of sports magazines on his bedside table.

"Thanks, Annie."

"You're tired, aren't you?"

He nods.

"I'll let you get some sleep." I kiss his forehead. "Laters, Daddy," I murmur.

"I'll see you later, honey. And thank you." Ray catches my hand and squeezes it gently. "I like that you call me Daddy. Takes me back."

Oh, Daddy. I return his squeeze.

As I head out the main doors toward the SUV where Sawyer is waiting, I hear my name being called.

"Mrs. Grey! Mrs. Grey!"

Turning, I see Dr. Greene hurrying toward me, looking her usual immaculate self, if a little flustered.

"Mrs. Grey, how are you? Did you get my message? I called earlier."

"No." My scalp prickles.

"Well, I was wondering why you'd cancelled four appointments."

Four appointments? I gape at her. I've missed four appointments! How?

"Perhaps we should talk about this in my office. I was going out for lunch—do you have time right now?"

I nod meekly. "Sure. I . . ." Words fail me. I've missed four appointments?

I'm late for my shot. Shit.

I follow her in a daze back into the hospital and up to her office. How did I miss four appointments? I vaguely remember one being moved—Hannah mentioned it—but four? How could I miss four?

Dr. Greene's office is spacious, minimalistic, and well appointed.

"I'm so grateful you caught me before I left," I mumble, still shell-shocked.

"My father's been in a car accident, and we've just moved him here from Portland."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. How's he doing?"

"He's doing okay, thank you. On the mend."

"That's good. And it explains why you cancelled on Friday."

Dr. Greene wiggles the mouse on her desk, and her computer comes to life.

"Yes . . . it's been over thirteen weeks. You're cutting it a bit close. We'd better do a test before we give you another shot."

"A test?" I whisper, all the blood rushing from my head.

"A pregnancy test."

Oh, no.

She reaches into the drawer of her desk. "You know what to do with this."

She hands me a small container. "The restroom is just outside my office."

I get up as if in a trance, my whole body operating as if on automatic pilot and I stumble to the restroom.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. How could I have let this happen . . . again? I suddenly feel sick and offer a silent prayer . Please no. Please no. It's too soon. It's too soon. It's too soon.

When I reenter Dr. Greene's office, she gives me a tight smile and waves me to the seat in front of her desk. I sit down and wordlessly hand her my sample.

She dips a small white stick into it and watches. She raises her eyebrows as it turns pale blue.

"What does blue mean?" The tension is almost choking me.

She looks up at me, her eyes serious. "Well, Mrs. Grey, it means you're pregnant."

What? No. No. No. Fuck.

Chapter Twenty

I gape at Dr. Greene, my world collapsing around me. A baby. A baby. I don't want a baby . . . not yet. Fuck. And I know deep down that Christian is going to freak.

"Mrs. Grey, you're very pale. Would you like a glass of water?"

"Please." My voice is a barely audible. My mind is racing. Pregnant? When?

"I take it you're surprised."

I nod mutely at the good doctor as she hands me a glass of water from her conveniently placed water cooler. I take a welcome sip. "Shocked," I whisper.

"We could do an ultrasound to see how advanced the pregnancy is. Judging by your reaction, I suspect you're just a couple of weeks or so from concep-tion—four or five weeks pregnant. I take it you haven't been suffering any other symptoms?"

I shake my head mutely. Symptoms? I don't think so. "I thought . . . I thought this was a reliable form of contraceptive."

Dr. Greene arches a brow. "It normally is, when you remember to have the shot," she says coolly.

"I must have lost track of time." Christian is going to freak. I know it.

"Have you been bleeding at all?"

I frown. "No."

"That's normal for the Depo. Let's do an ultrasound shall we? I have time."

I nod, bewildered, and Dr. Greene directs me toward a black leather exam table behind a screen.

"If you'll just slip off your skirt, underwear, and cover yourself with the blanket on the table, we'll go from there," she says briskly.

Underwear? I was expecting an ultrasound scan over my belly. Why do I need to remove my panties? I shrug in consternation then quickly do as she says and lie down beneath the soft white blanket.

"That's good." Dr. Greene appears at the end of the table, pulling the ultrasound machine closer. It's a hi-tech stack of computers. Sitting down, she positions the screen so that we can both see it and jogs the trackball on the keyboard.

The screen pings into life.

"If you could lift and bend your knees, then part them wide," she says matter-of-factly.

I frown warily.

"This is a transvaginal ultrasound. If you're only just pregnant, we should be able to find the baby with this." She holds up a long white probe.

Oh, you have got to be kidding!

"Okay," I mutter, mortified, and do as she says. Greene pulls a condom over the wand and lubricates it with clear gel.

"Mrs. Grey, if you could relax."

Relax? I'm pregnant, damn it! How do you expect me to relax? I blush, and endeavor to find my happy place . . . which has relocated somewhere near the lost Island of Atlantis.

Slowly and gently she inserts the probe.

Holy fuck!

All I can see on the screen is the visual equivalent of white noise—although it's more sepia in color. Slowly, Dr. Greene moves the probe about, and it's very disconcerting.

"There," she murmurs. She presses a button, freezing the picture on the screen, and points to a tiny blip in the sepia storm.

It's a little blip. There's a tiny little blip in my belly. Tiny. Wow. I forget my discomfort as I stare shell-shocked at the blip.

"It's too early to see the heartbeat, but yes, you're definitely pregnant. Four or five weeks, I would say." She frowns. "Looks like the shot ran out early. Oh well, that happens sometimes."

I am too stunned to say anything. The little blip is a baby. A real honest to goodness baby. Christian's baby. My baby. Holy cow. A baby!

"Would you like me to print out a picture for you?"

I nod, still unable to speak, and Dr. Greene presses a button. Then she gently removes the wand and hands me a paper towel to clean myself.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Grey," she says as I sit up. "We'll need to make another appointment. I suggest in four weeks' time. Then we can ascertain the exact age of your baby and set a likely due date. You can get dressed now."

"Okay." I'm reeling and I dress hurriedly. I have a blip, a little blip. When I emerge from behind the screen, Dr. Greene is back at her desk.

"In the meantime, I'd like you to start this course of folic acid and prenatal vitamins. Here's a leaflet of dos and don'ts."

As she hands me a package of pills and a leaflet, she continues to talk at me, but I'm not listening. I'm in shock. Overwhelmed. Surely I should be happy.

Surely I should be thirty . . . at least. This is too soon—far too soon. I try to quell my rising sense of panic.

I wish Dr. Greene a polite good-bye and head in a daze back down to the exit and out into the cool fall afternoon. I'm gripped suddenly by a creeping cold and deep sense of foreboding. Christian is going to freak, I know, but how much and how far, I have no idea. His words haunt me. "I'm not ready to share you yet." I pull my jacket tighter around me, trying to shake off the cold.

Sawyer leaps out of the SUV and holds open the door. He frowns when he sees my face, but I ignore his concerned expression.

"Where to, Mrs. Grey?" he asks gently.

"SIP." I nestle into the backseat of the car, closing my eyes and leaning my head on the headrest. I should be happy. I know I should be happy. But I'm not.

This is too early. Far too early. What about my job? What about SIP? What about Christian and me? No. No. No. We'll be fine. He'll be fine. He loved baby Mia—I remember Carrick telling me—he dotes on her now. Perhaps I should warn Flynn . . . Perhaps I shouldn't tell Christian. Perhaps I . . . perhaps I should end this. I halt my thoughts on that dark path, alarmed at the direction they're taking. Instinctively my hand sweeps down to rest protectively over my belly. No.

My little Blip. Tears spring to my eyes. What am I going to do?

A vision of a little boy with copper-colored hair and bright gray eyes, running through the meadow at the new house invades my thoughts, teasing and tantalizing me with possibilities. He's giggling and squealing with delight as Christian and I chase him. Christian swings him high in his arms and carries him on his hip as we walk hand in hand back to the house.

My vision morphs into Christian turning away from me in disgust. I'm fat and awkward, heavy with child. He paces the long hall of mirrors, away from me, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the silvered glass, walls, and floor.

Christian . . .

I jerk awake. No. He's going to freak out.

When Sawyer pulls up outside SIP, I leap out and head into the building.

"Ana, great to see you. How's your dad?" Hannah asks as soon as I reach my office. I regard her coolly.

"He's better, thank you. Can I see you in my office?"

"Sure." She looks surprised as she follows me in. "Is everything okay?"

"I need to know if you've moved or cancelled any appointments with Dr.

Greene."

"Dr. Greene? Yes, I have. About two or three of them. Mostly because you were in other meetings or running late. Why?"

Because now I'm fucking pregnant! I scream at her in my head. I take a deep, steadying breath. "If you move any appointments, will you make sure I know? I don't always check my calendar."

"Sure," Hannah says quietly. "I'm sorry. Have I done something wrong?"

I shake my head and sigh loudly. "Can you make me some tea? Then let's discuss what's been happening while I've been away."

"Sure. I'll jump to it." Brightening, she heads out of the office.

I gaze after her departing figure. "You see that woman?" I talk quietly to the Blip. "She might be the reason you're here." I pat my belly then feel like a complete idiot, because I am talking to the blip. My tiny little Blip. I shake my head, exasperated at myself and at Hannah . . . though deep down I know I can't really blame Hannah. Despondently I switch on my computer. There's an e-mail from Christian.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Missing You

Date: September 13, 2011 13:58

To: Anastasia Grey

Mrs. Grey

I've been back in the office for only three hours, and I'm missing you already.

Hope Ray has settled into his new room okay. Mom is going to see him this afternoon and check up on him.

I'll collect you around six this evening, and we can go and see him before heading home.

Sound good?

Your loving husband

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

I type a quick response.

From: Anastasia Grey

Subject: Missing You

Date: September 13, 2011 14:10

To: Christian Grey

Sure.

x

Anastasia Grey

Commissioning Editor, SIP

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Missing You

Date: September 13, 2011 14:14

To: Anastasia Grey

Are you okay?

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

No, Christian, I'm not. I'm freaking out about you freaking out. I don't know what to do. But I am not going to tell you via e-mail.

From: Anastasia Grey

Subject: Missing You

Date: September 13, 2011 14:17

To: Christian Grey

Fine. Just busy.

See you at six.

x

Anastasia Grey

Commissioning Editor, SIP

When will I tell him? Tonight? Maybe after sex? Maybe during sex. No, that might be dangerous for both of us. When he's asleep? I put my head in my hands.

What the hell am I going to do?

"Hi," Christian says warily as I climb into the SUV.

"Hi," I murmur.

"What's wrong?" He frowns. I shake my head as Taylor sets off toward the hospital.

"Nothing." Maybe now? I could tell him now when we're in a contained space and Taylor is with us.

"Is work all right?" Christian continues to probe.

"Yes. Fine. Thanks."

"Ana, what's wrong?" His tone is a little more forceful, and I chicken out.

"I've just missed you, that's all. And I've been worried about Ray."

Christian visibly relaxes. "Ray's good. I spoke to Mom this afternoon and she's impressed with his progress." Christian grasps my hand. "Boy, your hand is cold. Have you eaten today?"

I blush.

"Ana," Christian scolds me, annoyed.

Well, I haven't eaten because I know you're going to go bat-shit crazy when I tell you I'm pregnant.

"I'll eat this evening. I haven't really had time."

He shakes his head in frustration. "Do you want me to add ‘feed my wife' to the security detail's list of duties?"

"I'm sorry. I'll eat. It's just been a weird day. You know, moving Dad and all."

His lips press into a hard line, but he says nothing. I gaze out the window.

Tell him! My subconscious hisses. No. I'm a coward.

Christian interrupts my reverie. "I may have to go to Taiwan."

"Oh. When?"

"Later this week. Maybe next week."

"Okay."

"I want you to come with me."

I swallow. "Christian, please. I have my job. Let's not rehash this argument again."

He sighs and pouts like a sulky teenager. "Thought I'd ask," he mutters petulantly.

"How long will you go for?"

"Not more than a couple of days. I wish you'd tell me what's bothering you."

How can he tell? "Well, now that my beloved husband is going away . . ."

Christian kisses my knuckles. "I won't be away for long."

"Good." I smile weakly at him.

Ray is much brighter and a lot less grumpy when we see him. I'm touched by his quiet gratitude to Christian, and for a moment I forget about my impending news as I sit and listen to them talk fishing and the Mariners. But he tires easily.

"Daddy, we'll leave you to sleep."

"Thanks, Ana honey. I like that you drop by. Saw your mom today, too, Christian. She was very reassuring. And she's a Mariners fan."

"She's not crazy about fishing, though," Christian says wryly as he rises.

"Don't know many women who are, eh?" Ray grins.

"I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" I kiss him. My subconscious purses her lips.

That's provided Christian hasn't locked you away . . . or worse. My spirits take a nosedive.

"Come." Christian holds out his hand, frowning at me. I take it and we leave the hospital.

I pick at my food. It's Mrs. Jones's chicken chasseur, but I'm just not hungry. My stomach is knotted in a tight ball of anxiety.

"Damn it! Ana, will you tell me what's wrong?" Christian pushes his empty plate away, irritated. I gaze at him. "Please. You're driving me crazy."

I swallow and try to subdue the panic rising in my throat. I take a deep steadying breath. It's now or never. "I'm pregnant."

He stills, and very slowly all the color drains from his face. "What?" he whispers, ashen.

"I'm pregnant."

His brow furrows with incomprehension. "How?"

How . . . how? What sort of ridiculous question is that? I blush, and give him a quizzical how-do-you-think look.

His stance changes immediately, his eyes hardening to flint. "Your shot?" he snarls.

Oh shit.

"Did you forget your shot?"

I just gaze at him unable to speak. Jeez, he's mad—really mad.

"Christ, Ana!" He bangs his fist on the table, making me jump, and stands so abruptly he almost knocks the dining chair over. "You have one thing, one thing to remember. Shit! I don't fucking believe it. How could you be so stupid?"

Stupid! I gasp. Shit. I want to tell him that the shot was ineffective, but words fail me. I gaze down at my fingers. "I'm sorry," I whisper.

"Sorry? Fuck!" he says again.

"I know the timing's not very good."

"Not very good!" he shouts. "We've known each other five fucking minutes.

I wanted to show you the fucking world and now . . . Fuck. Diapers and vomit and shit!" He closes his eyes. I think he's trying to contain his temper and losing the battle.

"Did you forget? Tell me. Or did you do this on purpose?" His eyes blaze and anger emanates off him like a force field.

"No," I whisper. I can't tell him about Hannah—he'd fire her. I know.

"I thought we'd agreed on this!" he shouts.

"I know. We had. I'm sorry."

He ignores me. "This is why. This is why I like control. So shit like this doesn't come along and fuck everything up."

No . . . Little Blip. "Christian, please don't shout at me." Tears start to slip down my face.

"Don't start with waterworks now," he snaps. "Fuck." He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at it as he does. "You think I'm ready to be a father?" His voice catches, and it's a mixture of rage and panic.

And it all becomes clear, the fear and loathing writ large in his eyes—his rage is that of a powerless adolescent. Oh, Fifty, I am so sorry. It's a shock for me, too.

"I know neither one of us is ready for this, but I think you'll make a wonderful father," I choke. "We'll figure it out."

"How the fuck do you know!" he shouts, louder this time. "Tell me how!"

His gray eyes burn, and so many emotions cross his face. It's fear that's most prominent.

"Oh fuck this!" Christian bellows dismissively and holds his hands up in a gesture of defeat. He turns on his heel and stalks toward the foyer, grabbing his jacket as he leaves the great room. His footsteps echo off the wooden floor, and he disappears through the double doors into the foyer, slamming the door behind him and making me jump once more.

I am alone with the silence—the still, silent emptiness of the great room. I shudder involuntarily as I gaze numbly at the closed doors. He's walked out on me. Shit! His reaction is far worse than I could ever have imagined. I push my plate away and fold my arms on the table, letting my head sink into them while I weep.

"Ana, dear." Mrs. Jones is hovering beside me.

I sit up quickly, dashing the tears from my face.

"I heard. I'm sorry," she says gently. "Would you like an herbal tea or something?"

"I'd like a glass of white wine."

Mrs. Jones pauses for a fraction of a second, and I remember Blip. Now I can't drink alcohol. Can I? I must study the dos and don'ts Dr. Greene gave me.

"I'll get you a glass."

"Actually, I'll have a cup of tea, please." I wipe my nose. She smiles kindly.

"Cup of tea coming up." She clears our plates and heads over to the kitchen area. I follow her and perch on a stool, watching her prepare my tea.

She places a steaming mug in front of me. "Is there anything else I can get for you, Ana?"

"No, this is fine, thank you."

"Are you sure? You didn't eat much."

I gaze up at her. "I'm just not hungry."

"Ana, you should eat. It's not just you anymore. Please let me fix you something. What would you like?" She looks so hopefully at me. But really, I can't face anything.

My husband has just walked out on me because I'm pregnant, my father has been in a major car accident, and there's Jack Hyde the nutcase trying to make out that I sexually harassed him. I suddenly have an uncontrollable urge to giggle. See what you've done to me, Little Blip! I caress my belly.

Mrs. Jones smiles indulgently at me. "Do you know how far you are?" she asks softly.

"Very newly pregnant. Four or five weeks, the doctor isn't sure."

"If you won't eat, then at least you should rest."

I nod, and taking my tea, I head into the library. It's my refuge. I dig my BlackBerry out of my purse and contemplate calling Christian. I know it's a shock for him—but he really did overreact. When does he not overreact? My subconscious arches a finely plucked brow at me. I sigh. Fifty Shades of fucked up.

"Yes, that's your daddy, Little Blip. Hopefully he'll cool off and come back . . . soon."

I pull out the leaflet of dos and don'ts and sit down to read.

I can't concentrate. Christian's never walked out on me before. He's been so thoughtful and kind over the last few days, so loving and now . . . Suppose he never comes back? Shit! Perhaps I should call Flynn. I don't know what to do.

I'm at a loss. He's so fragile in so many ways, and I knew he'd react badly to the news. He was so sweet this weekend. All those circumstances way beyond his control, yet he managed fine. But this news was too much.

Ever since I met him, my life has been complicated. Is it him? Is it the two of us together? Suppose he doesn't get past this? Suppose he wants a divorce? Bile rises in my throat. No. I mustn't think this way. He'll be back. He will. I know he will. I know regardless of the shouting and his harsh words he loves me . . . yes.

And he'll love you, too, Little Blip.

Leaning back in my chair, I start to doze.

I wake cold and disorientated. Shivering I check my watch; eleven in the evening.

Oh yes . . . You. I pat my belly. Where's Christian? Is he back? Stiffly I ease out of the armchair and go in search of my husband.

Five minutes later, I realize he's not home. I hope nothing's happened to him.

Memories of the long wait when Charlie Tango went missing flood back.

No, no, no. Stop thinking like this. He's probably gone to . . . where? Who would he go and see? Elliot? Or maybe he's with Flynn. I hope so. I find my BlackBerry back in the library, and I text him.

*Where are you?*

I head into the bathroom and run myself a bath. I am so cold.

He still hasn't returned when I climb out of the bath. I change into one of my 1930s-style satin nightdresses and my robe and head to the great room. On the way, I pop into the spare bedroom. Perhaps this could be Little Blip's room. I am startled by the thought and stand in the doorway, contemplating this reality. Will we paint it blue or pink? The sweet thought is soured by the fact that my errant husband is so pissed at the idea. Grabbing the duvet from the spare bed, I head in-to the great room to keep vigil.

Something wakes me. A sound.

"Shit!"

It's Christian in the foyer. I hear the table scrape across the floor again.

"Shit!" he repeats, more muffled this time.

I scramble up in time to see him stagger through the double doors. He's drunk. My scalp prickles. Shit, Christian drunk? I know how much he hates drunks. I leap up and run toward him.

"Christian, are you okay?"

He leans against the jamb of the foyer doors. "Mrs. Grey," he slurs.

Crap. He's very drunk. I don't know what to do.

"Oh . . . you look mighty fine, Anastasia."

"Where have you been?"

He puts his fingers to his lips and smiles crookedly at me. "Shh!"

"I think you'd better come to bed."

"With you . . ." He snickers.

Snickering! Frowning, I gently put my arm around his waist because he can hardly stand, let alone walk. Where has he been? How did he get home?

"Let me help you to bed. Lean on me."

"You are very beautiful, Ana." He leans onto me and sniffs my hair, almost knocking both of us over.

"Christian, walk. I am going to put you to bed."

"Okay," he says as if he's trying to concentrate.

We stumble down the corridor and finally make it into the bedroom.

"Bed," he says, grinning.

"Yes, bed." I maneuver him to the edge, but he holds me.

"Join me," he says.

"Christian, I think you need some sleep."

"And so it begins. I've heard about this."

I frown. "Heard about what?"

"Babies mean no sex."

"I'm sure that's not true. Otherwise we'd all come from one-child families."

He gazes down at me. "You're funny."

"You're drunk."

"Yes." He smiles, but his smile changes as he thinks about it, and a haunted expression crosses his face, a look that chills me to the bone.

"Come on, Christian," I say gently. I hate his expression. It speaks of horrid, ugly memories that no child should see. "Let's get you into bed." I push him gently, and he flops down onto the mattress, sprawling in all directions and grinning up at me, his haunted expression gone.

"Join me," he slurs.

"Let's get you undressed first."

He grins widely, drunkenly. "Now you're talking."

Holy cow. Drunk Christian is cute and playful. I'll take him over mad-as-hell Christian anytime.

"Sit up. Let me take your jacket off."

"The room is spinning."

Shit . . . is he going to throw up? "Christian, sit up!"

He smirks up at me. "Mrs. Grey, you are a bossy little thing . . ."

"Yes. Do as you're told and sit up." I put my hands on my hips. He grins again, struggles up onto his elbows then sits up in a most unChristian-like, gawky fashion. Before he can flop down again, I grab his tie and wrestle him out of his gray jacket, one arm at a time.

"You smell good."

"You smell of hard liquor."

"Yes . . . bour-bon." He pronounces the syllables with such exaggeration that I have to stifle a giggle. Discarding his jacket on the floor beside me, I make a start on his tie. He rests his hands on my hips.

"I like the feel of this fabric on you, Anastay-shia," he says, slurring his words. "You should always be in satin or silk." He runs his hands up and down my hips then jerks me forward, pressing his mouth against my belly.

"And we have an invader in here."

I stop breathing. Holy cow. He's talking to Little Blip.

"You're going to keep me awake, aren't you?" he says to my belly.

Oh my. Christian looks up at me through his long dark lashes, gray eyes blurred and cloudy. My heart constricts.

"You'll choose him over me," he says sadly.

"Christian, you don't know what you're talking about. Don't be ridiculous—I am not choosing anyone over anyone. And he might be a she."

He frowns. "A she . . . Oh, God." He flops back down on to the bed and covers his eyes with his arm. I have managed to loosen his tie. I undo one shoelace and yank off his shoe and sock, then the other. When I stand, I see why I've met no resistance—Christian has passed out completely. He's sound asleep and snoring softly.

I stare at him. He's so goddamned beautiful, even drunk and snoring. His sculptured lips parted, one arm above his head, ruffling his messy hair, his face relaxed. He looks young—but then he is young; my young, stressed out, drunk, un-happy husband. The thought rests heavy in my heart.

Well, at least he's home. I wonder where he went. I'm not sure I have the energy or the strength to move him or undress him any further. He's on top of the duvet, too. Heading back into the great room, I pick up the duvet I was using and bring it back to our bedroom.

He's still fast asleep, still wearing his tie and his belt. I climb onto the bed beside him, remove his tie, and gently undo the top button of his shirt. He mumbles something incoherently in his sleep, but he doesn't wake. Carefully, I unbuckle his belt and pull it through the belt loops, and after some difficulty it's off. His shirt has come dislodged from his pants, revealing a hint of his happy trail. I can't resist. I bend and kiss it. He shifts, flexing his hips forward, but stays asleep.

I sit up and gaze at him again. Oh, Fifty, Fifty, Fifty . . . what am I going to do with you? I brush my fingers through his hair. It's so soft and kiss his temple.

"I love you, Christian. Even when you're drunk and you've been out God knows where, I love you. I'll always love you."

"Hmm," he murmurs. I kiss his temple once more, then get off the bed, and cover him up with the spare duvet. I can sleep beside him, sideways across the bed . . . Yes, I'll do that.

First I'll sort out his clothes, though. I shake my head and pick up his socks and tie, and fold his jacket over my arm. As I do, his BlackBerry falls to the floor.

I pick it up and inadvertently unlock it. It opens on the texts screen. I can see my text, and above it, another.

Fuck. My scalp prickles.

*It was good to see you. I understand now.

Don't fret. You'll make a wonderful father.*

It's from her. Mrs. Elena Bitch Troll Robinson.

Shit. That's where he went. He's been to see her.