Текст книги "Fifty shades darker"

Автор книги: Erika Leonard James

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First published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2011

Copyright © E L James, 2011

The right of E L James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her

under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000

This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968,

no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or

transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the

publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a prod-

uct of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people

living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Writer’s Coffee Shop

(Australia) PO Box 2013 Hornsby Westfield NSW 1635

(USA) PO Box 2116 Waxahachie TX 75168

Paperback ISBN-978-1-61213-058-3

E-book ISBN-978-1-61213-059-0

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.

Cover image by: E. Spek

Cover design by: Jennifer McGuire

www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/ejames

E L James is a TV executive, wife, and mother of two, based in West London. Since early

childhood, she dreamt of writing stories that readers would fall in love with, but put those

dreams on hold to focus on her family and her career. She finally plucked up the courage to

put pen to paper with her first novel, Fifty Shades of Grey.

E L James is currently working on the sequel to Fifty Shades Darkerand a new romantic

thriller with a supernatural twist.

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Sarah, Kay, and Jada. Thank you for all that you have

done for me.

Also HUGE thanks to Kathleen and Kristi who stepped into the breach and sorted stuff out.

Thank you too to Niall, my husband, my lover, and my best friend (most of the time).

And a big shout out to all the wonderful, wonderful women from all over the world whom I

have had the pleasure of meeting since I started all this, and whom I now consider friends,

including: Ale, Alex, Amy, Andrea, Angela, Azucena, Babs, Bee, Belinda, Betsy, Brandy,

Britt, Caroline, Catherine, Dawn, Gwen, Hannah, Janet, Jen, Jenn, Jill, Kathy, Katie, Kel-

lie, Kelly, Liz, Mandy, Margaret, Natalia, Nicole, Nora, Olga, Pam, Pauline, Raina, Raizie,

Rajka, Rhian, Ruth, Steph, Susi, Tasha, Taylor and Una. And also to the many, many tal-

ented, funny, warm women (and men) I have met online. You know who you are.

Thanks to Morgan and Jenn for all things Heathman.

And finally, thank you to Janine, my editor. You rock. That is all.

He’s come back. Mommy’s asleep or she’s sick again.

I hide and curl up small under the table in the kitchen. Through my fingers I can see

Mommy. She is asleep on the couch. Her hand is on the sticky green rug, and he’s wearing

his big boots with the shiny buckle and standing over Mommy shouting.

He hits Mommy with a belt. Get up! Get up! You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one

fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one

fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch.

Mommy makes a sobbing noise. Stop. Please stop.Mommy doesn’t scream. Mommy

curls up small.

I have my fingers in my ears, and I close my eyes. The sound stops.

He turns and I can see his boots as he stomps into the kitchen. He still has the belt. He

is trying to find me.

He stoops down and grins. He smells nasty. Of cigarettes and drink. There you are, you

little shit.

A chilling wail wakes him. Christ!He’s drenched in sweat and his heart is pounding. What

the fuck?He sits bolt upright in bed and puts his head in hands. Fuck. They’re back. The

noise was me.He takes a deep steadying breath, trying to rid his mind and nostrils of the

smell of cheap bourbon and stale Camel cigarettes.

I have survived Day Three Post-Christian, and my first day at work. It has been a welcome

distraction. The time has flown by in a haze of new faces, work to do, and Mr. Jack Hyde.

Mr. Jack Hyde . . . he smiles down at me, his blue eyes twinkling, as he leans against my

desk.“Excellent work, Ana. I think we’re going to make a great team.”

Somehow, I manage to curl my lips upward in a semblance of a smile.

“I’ll be off, if that’s okay with you,” I murmur.

“Of course, it’s five thirty. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Jack.”

“Goodnight, Ana.”

Collecting my bag, I shrug on my jacket and head for the door. Out in the early evening

air of Seattle, I take a deep breath. It doesn’t begin to fill the void in my chest, a void that’s

been present since Saturday morning, a painful hollow reminder of my loss. I walk toward

the bus stop with my head down, staring at my feet and contemplating being without my

beloved Wanda, my old Beetle . . . or the Audi.

I shut the door on that thought immediately. No. Don’t think about him. Of course, I

can afford a car—a nice, new car. I suspect he has been overgenerous in his payment, and

the thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but I dismiss it and try to keep my mind as

numb and as blank as possible. I can’t think about him. I don’t want to start crying again—

not out on the street.

The apartment is empty. I miss Kate, and I imagine her lying on a beach in Barbados

sipping a cool cocktail. I turn on the flat-screen television so there’s noise to fill the vacuum

and provide some semblance of company, but I don’t listen or watch. I sit and stare blankly

at the brick wall. I am numb. I feel nothing but the pain. How long must I endure this?

The door buzzer startles me from my anguish, and my heart skips a beat. Who could

that be? I press the intercom.

“Delivery for Ms. Steele.” A bored, disembodied voice answers, and disappointment

crashes through me. I listlessly make my way downstairs and find a young man noisily

chewing gum, holding a large cardboard box, and leaning against the front door. I sign

for the package and take it upstairs. The box is huge and surprisingly light. Inside are two

dozen long-stemmed, white roses and a card.

Congratulations on your first day at work.

I hope it went well.

And thank you for the glider. That was very thoughtful.

It has pride of place on my desk.

Christian

I stare at the typed card, the hollow in my chest expanding. No doubt, his assistant

sent this. Christian probably had very little to do with it. It’s too painful to think about. I

examine the roses—they are beautiful, and I can’t bring myself to throw them in the trash.

Dutifully, I make my way into the kitchen to hunt down a vase.

And so a pattern develops: wake, work, cry, sleep. Well, try to sleep. I can’t even escape

him in my dreams. Gray burning eyes, his lost look, his hair burnished and bright all haunt

me. And the music . . . so much music—I cannot bear to hear any music. I am careful to

avoid it at all costs. Even the jingles in commercials make me shudder.

I have spoken to no one, not even my mother or Ray. I don’t have the capacity for idle

talk now. No, I want none of it. I have become my own island state. A ravaged, war-torn

land where nothing grows and the horizons are bleak. Yes, that’s me. I can interact imper-

sonally at work, but that’s it. If I talk to Mom, I know I will break even further—and I have

nothing left to break.

I am finding it difficult to eat. By Wednesday lunchtime, I manage a cup of yogurt, and it’s

the first thing I’ve eaten since Friday. I am surviving on a newfound tolerance for lattes and

Diet Coke. It’s the caffeine that keeps me going, but it’s making me anxious.

Jack has started to hover over me, irritating me, asking me personal questions. What

does he want? I’m polite, but I need to keep him at arm’s length.

I sit and begin trawling through a pile of correspondence addressed to him, and I’m

pleased with the distraction of menial work. My e-mail pings, and I quickly check to see

who it’s from.

Holy shit. An e-mail from Christian. Oh no, not here . . . not at work.

From:Christian Grey

Subject:Tomorrow

Date:June 8, 2011 14:05

To:Anastasia Steele

Dear Anastasia

Forgive this intrusion at work. I hope that it’s going well. Did you get my flowers?

I note that tomorrow is the gallery opening for your friend’s show, and I’m sure you’ve

not had time to purchase a car, and it’s a long drive. I would be more than happy to take

you—should you wish.

Let me know.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Tears swim in my eyes. I hastily leave my desk and bolt to the restroom to escape into one

of the stalls. José’s show. Crap. I’d forgotten all about it, and I promised him I’d go. Shit,

Christian is right; how am I going to get there?

I clutch my forehead. Why hasn’t José phoned? Come to think of it—why hasn’t any-

one phoned? I’ve been so absentminded, I haven’t noticed that my cell phone has been

silent.

Shit!I am such an idiot! I still have it on divert to the Blackberry. Holy hell. Christian’s

been getting my calls—unless he’s just thrown the Blackberry away. How did he get my

e-mail address?

He knows my shoe size, an e-mail address is hardly going to present him with many

problems.

Can I see him again? Could I bear it? Do I want to see him? I close my eyes and tilt my

head back as grief and longing lance through me. Of course I do.

Perhaps, perhaps I can tell him I’ve changed my mind . . . No, no, no. I cannot be with

someone who takes pleasure in inflicting pain on me, someone who can’t love me.

Torturous memories flash through my mind—the gliding, holding hands, kissing, the

bathtub, his gentleness, his humor, and his dark, brooding, sexy stare. I miss him. It’s been

five days, five days of agony that has felt like an eternity.

I wrap my arms around my body, hugging myself tightly, holding myself together. I

miss him. I really miss him . . . I love him. Simple.

I cry myself to sleep at night, wishing I hadn’t walked out, wishing that he could be

different, wishing that we were together. How long will this hideous overwhelming feeling

last? I am in purgatory.

Anastasia Steele, you are at work!I must be strong, but I want to go to José’s show,

and deep down, the masochist in me wants to see Christian. Taking a deep breath, I head

back to my desk.

From:Anastasia Steele

Subject:Tomorrow

Date:June 8, 2011 14:25

To:Christian Grey

Hi Christian

Thank you for the flowers; they are lovely.

Yes, I would appreciate a lift.

Thank you.

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP

Checking my phone, I find that it is still switched to divert. Jack is in a meeting, so I quickly

call José.

“Hi, José. It’s Ana.”

“Hello, stranger.” His tone is so warm and welcoming it’s almost enough to push me

over the edge again.

“I can’t talk long. What time should I be there tomorrow for your show?”

“You’re still coming?” He sounds excited.

“Yes, of course.” I smile my first genuine smile in five days as I picture his broad grin.

“Seven thirty.”

“See you then. Good-bye, José.”

“Bye, Ana.”

From:Christian Grey

Subject:Tomorrow

Date:June 8, 2011 14:27

To:Anastasia Steele

Dear Anastasia

What time shall I collect you?

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From:Anastasia Steele

Subject:Tomorrow

Date:June 8, 2011 14:32

To:Christian Grey

José’s show starts at 7:30. What time would you suggest?

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP

From:Christian Grey

Subject:Tomorrow

Date:June 8, 2011 14:34

To:Anastasia Steele

Dear Anastasia

Portland is some distance away. I shall collect you at 5:45.

I look forward to seeing you.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From:Anastasia Steele

Subject:Tomorrow

Date:June 8, 2011 14:38

To:Christian Grey

See you then.

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP

Oh my. I’m going to see Christian, and for the first time in five days, my spirits lift a frac-

tion and I allow myself to wonder how he’s been.

Has he missed me? Probably not like I’ve missed him. Has he found a new submissive

from wherever they come from? The thought is so painful that I dismiss it immediately. I

look at the pile of correspondence I need to sort for Jack and tackle it as I try to push Chris-

tian out of my mind once more.

That night in bed, I toss and turn, trying to sleep. It is the first time in a while I haven’t

cried myself to sleep.

In my mind’s eye, I visualize Christian’s face the last time I saw him as I left his apart-

ment. His tortured expression haunts me. I remember he didn’t want me to go, which was

odd. Why would I stay when things had reached such an impasse? We were each skirting

around our own issues—my fear of punishment, his fear of . . . what? Love?

Turning on my side, I hug my pillow, filled with an overwhelming sadness. He thinks

he doesn’t deserve to be loved. Why does he feel that way? Is it something to do with his

upbringing? His birth mom, the crack whore? My thoughts plague me into the early hours

until eventually I fall into a fitful, exhausted sleep.

The day drags and drags and Jack is unusually attentive. I suspect it’s Kate’s plum dress and

the black high-heeled boots I’ve stolen from her closet, but I don’t dwell on the thought.

I resolve to go clothes shopping with my first paycheck. The dress is looser on me than it

was, but I pretend not to notice.

Finally, it’s five thirty, and I collect my jacket and purse, trying to quell my nerves. I’m

going to see him!

“Do you have a date tonight?” Jack asks as he strolls past my desk on his way out.

“Yes. No. Not really.”

He cocks an eyebrow at me, his interest clearly piqued. “Boyfriend?”

I flush. “No, a friend. An ex-boyfriend.”

“Maybe tomorrow you’d like to come for a drink after work. You’ve had a stellar first

week, Ana. We should celebrate.” He smiles and some unknown emotion flits across his

face, making me uneasy.

Putting his hands in his pockets, he saunters through the double doors. I frown at his

retreating back. Drinks with the boss, is that a good idea?

I shake my head. I have an evening of Christian Grey to get through first. How am I

going to do this? I hurry into the restroom to make last-minute adjustments.

In the large mirror on the wall, I take a long, hard look at my face. I am my usual pale

self, dark circles round my too-large eyes. I look gaunt, haunted.

Jeez, I wish I knew how to use makeup. I apply some mascara and eyeliner and pinch

my cheeks, hoping to bring some color their way. Tidying my hair so that it hangs artfully

down my back, I take a deep breath. This will have to do.

Nervously I walk through the foyer with a smile and a wave to Claire at reception. I

think she and I could become friends. Jack is talking to Elizabeth as I head for the doors.

Smiling broadly, he hurries over to open them for me.

“After you, Ana,” he murmurs.

“Thank you.” I smile, embarrassed.

Outside on the curb, Taylor is waiting. He opens the rear door of the car. I glance

hesitantly at Jack who has followed me out. He’s looking toward the Audi SUV in dismay.

I turn and climb into the back, and there he sits—Christian Grey—wearing his gray

suit, no tie, his white shirt open at the collar. His gray eyes are glowing.

My mouth dries. He looks glorious except he’s scowling at me. Oh no!

“When did you last eat?” he snaps as Taylor closes the door behind me.

Crap.“Hello, Christian. Yes, it’s nice to see you, too.”

“I don’t want your smart mouth now. Answer me.” His eyes blaze.

Holy shit.“Um . . . I had a yogurt at lunchtime. Oh—and a banana.”

“When did you last have a proper meal?” he asks acidly.

Taylor slips into the driver’s seat, starts the car, and pulls out into the traffic.

I glance up and Jack is waving at me, though how he can see me through the dark glass,

I don’t know. I wave back.

“Who’s that?” Christian snaps.

“My boss.” I peek up at the beautiful man beside me, and his mouth is pressed into a

hard line.

“Well? Your last meal?”

“Christian, that really is none of your concern,” I murmur, feeling extraordinarily

brave.

“Whatever you do concerns me. Tell me.”

No, it doesn’t.I groan in frustration, rolling my eyes heavenward, and Christian nar-

rows his eyes. And for the first time in a long time, I want to laugh. I try hard to stifle the

giggle that threatens to bubble up. Christian’s face softens as I struggle to keep a straight

face, and I see a trace of a smile kiss his beautifully sculptured lips.

“Well?” he asks, his voice softer.

“Pasta alla vongole, last Friday,” I whisper.

He closes his eyes as fury and possibly regret, sweeps across his face. “I see,” he says,

his voice expressionless. “You look like you’ve lost at least five pounds, possibly more

since then. Please eat, Anastasia,” he scolds.

I stare down at the knotted fingers in my lap. Why does he always make me feel like

an errant child?

He shifts and turns toward me. “How are you?” he asks, his voice still soft.

Well, I’m shit really. . . I swallow. “If I told you I was fine, I’d be lying.”

He inhales sharply. “Me, too,” he murmurs and reaches over and clasps my hand. “I

miss you,” he adds.

Oh no. Skin against skin.

“Christian, I—”

“Ana, please. We need to talk.”

I’m going to cry.No. “Christian, I . . . please . . . I’ve cried so much,” I whisper, trying

to keep my emotions in check

“Oh, baby, no.” He tugs my hand, and before I know it I’m on his lap. He has his arms

around me, and his nose is in my hair. “I’ve missed you so much, Anastasia,” he breathes.

I want to struggle out of his hold, to maintain some distance, but his arms are wrapped

around me. He’s pressing me to his chest. I melt. Oh, this is where I want to be.

I rest my head against him, and he kisses my hair repeatedly. This is home. He smells

of linen, fabric softener, body wash, and my favorite smell—Christian. For a moment, I

allow myself the illusion that all will be well, and it soothes my ravaged soul.

A few minutes later Taylor pulls to a stop at the curb, even though we’re still in the city.

“Come”—Christian shifts me off his lap—“we’re here.”

What?

“Helipad—on the top of this building.” Christian glances toward the building by way

of explanation.

Of course. Charlie Tango. Taylor opens the door and I slide out. He gives me a warm,

avuncular smile that makes me feel safe. I smile back.

“I should give you back your handkerchief.”

“Keep it, Miss Steele, with my best wishes.”

I flush as Christian comes around the car and takes my hand. He looks quizzically at

Taylor who stares impassively back at him, revealing nothing.

“Nine?” Christian says to him.

“Yes, sir.”

Christian nods as he turns and leads me through the double doors into the grandiose

foyer. I revel in the feel of his large hand and his long, skilled fingers curled around mine.

I feel the familiar pull—I am drawn, Icarus to his sun. I have been burned already, and yet

here I am again.

Reaching the elevators, he presses the call button. I peek up at him, and he’s wearing

his enigmatic half smile. As the doors open, he releases my hand and ushers me in.

The doors close and I risk a second peek. He glances down at me, gray eyes alive, and

it’s there in the air between us, that electricity. It’s palpable. I can almost taste it, pulsing

between us, drawing us together.

“Oh my,” I gasp as I bask briefly in the intensity of this visceral, primal attraction.

“I feel it, too,” he says, his eyes clouded and intense.

Desire pools dark and deadly in my groin. He clasps my hand and grazes my knuckles

with his thumb, and all my muscles clench tightly, deliciously, deep inside me.

Holy cow. How can he still do this to me?

“Please don’t bite your lip, Anastasia,” he whispers.

I gaze up at him, releasing my lip. I want him. Here, now, in the elevator. How could

I not?

“You know what it does to me,” he murmurs.

Oh, I still affect him. My inner goddess stirs from her five-day sulk.

Abruptly the doors open, breaking the spell, and we’re on the roof. It’s windy, and

despite my black jacket, I’m cold. Christian puts his arm around me, pulling me into his

side, and we hurry across to where Charlie Tango stands in the center of the helipad with

its rotor blades slowly spinning.

A tall, blond, square-jawed man in a dark suit leaps out and, ducking low, runs toward

us. Shaking hands with Christian, he shouts above the noise of the rotors.

“Ready to go, sir. She’s all yours!”

“All checks done?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll collect her around eight thirty?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Taylor’s waiting for you out front.”

“Thank you, Mr. Grey. Safe flight to Portland. Ma’am.” He salutes me. Without releas-

ing me, Christian nods, ducks down, and leads me to the helicopter door.

Once inside he buckles me firmly into my harness, cinching the straps tight. He gives

me a knowing look and his secret smile.

“This should keep you in your place,” he murmurs. “I must say I do like this harness

on you. Don’t touch anything.”

I flush a deep crimson, and he runs his index finger down my cheek before handing me

the headphones. I’d like to touch you, too, but you won’t let me.I scowl at him. Besides,

he’s pulled the straps so tight I can barely move.

He sits in his seat and buckles himself in, then starts running through all his preflight

checks. He’s just so competent. It’s very alluring. He puts on his headphones and flips a

switch and the rotors speed up, deafening me.

Turning, he gazes at me. “Ready, baby?” His voice echoes through the headphones.

“Yes.”

He grins his boyish grin. Wow—I’ve not seen it for so long.

“Sea-Tac tower, this is Charlie Tango—Tango Echo Hotel, cleared for takeoff to Port-

land via PDX. Please confirm, over.”

The disembodied voice of the air traffic controller answers, issuing instructions.

“Roger, tower, Charlie Tango set, over and out.” Christian flips two switches, grasps

the stick, and the helicopter rises slowly and smoothly into the evening sky.

Seattle and my stomach drop away from us, and there’s so much to see.

“We’ve chased the dawn, Anastasia, now the dusk,” his voice comes through on the

headphones. I turn to gape at him in surprise.

What does this mean? How is it that he can say the most romantic things? He smiles,

and I can’t help but smile shyly back at him.

“As well as the evening sun, there’s more to see this time,” he says.

The last time we flew to Seattle it was dark, but this evening the view is spectacular,

literally out of this world. We’re up among the tallest buildings, going higher and higher.

“Escala’s over there.” He points toward the building. “Boeing there, and you can just

see the Space Needle.”

I crane my head. “I’ve never been.”

“I’ll take you—we can eat there.”

What?“Christian, we broke up.”

“I know. I can still take you there and feed you.” He glares at me.

I shake my head and flush before taking a less confrontational approach. “It’s very

beautiful up here, thank you.”

“Impressive, isn’t it?”

“Impressive that you can do this.”

“Flattery from you, Miss Steele? But I’m a man of many talents.”

“I’m fully aware of that, Mr. Grey.”

He turns and smirks at me, and for the first time in five days, I relax a little. Perhaps

this won’t be so bad.

“How’s the new job?”

“Good, thank you. Interesting.”

“What’s your boss like?”

“Oh, he’s okay.” How can I tell Christian that Jack makes me uncomfortable? Christian

turns and gazes at me.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Aside from the obvious, nothing.”

“The obvious?”

“Oh, Christian, you really are very obtuse sometimes.”

“Obtuse? Me? I’m not sure I appreciate your tone, Miss Steele.”

“Well, don’t then.”

His lips twitch into a smile. “I have missed your smart mouth.”

I gasp and I want to shout, I’ve missed you—all of you—not just your mouth!But I keep

quiet and gaze out the glass fishbowl that is Charlie Tango’s windshield as we continue

south. The dusk is to our right, the sun low on the horizon—large, blazing fiery orange—

and I am Icarus again, flying far too close.

The dusk has followed us from Seattle, and the sky is awash with opal, pinks, and aqua-

marines woven seamlessly together as only Mother Nature knows how. It’s a clear, crisp

evening, and the lights of Portland twinkle and wink, welcoming us as Christian sets the

helicopter down on the helipad. We are on top of the strange brown brick building in Port-

land we left less than three weeks ago.

Jeez, it’s been hardly any time at all. Yet I feel like I’ve known Christian for a lifetime.

He powers down Charlie Tango, flipping various switches so the rotors stop, and eventu-

ally all I hear is my own breathing through the headphones. Hmm. Briefly it reminds me of

the Thomas Tallis experience. I blanch. I so don’t want to go there right now.

Christian unbuckles his harness and leans across to undo mine.

“Good trip, Miss Steele?” he asks, his voice mild, his gray eyes glowing.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Grey,” I reply politely.

“Well, let’s go see the boy’s photos.” He holds his hand out to me and taking it, I climb

out of Charlie Tango.

A gray-haired man with a beard walks over to meet us, smiling broadly, and I recognize

him as the old-timer from the last time we were here.

“Joe.” Christian smiles and releases my hand to shake Joe’s warmly.

“Keep her safe for Stephan. He’ll be along around eight or nine.”

“Will do, Mr. Grey. Ma’am,” he says, nodding at me. “Your car’s waiting downstairs,

sir. Oh, and the elevator’s out of order; you’ll need to use the stairs.”

“Thank you, Joe.”

Christian takes my hand, and we head to the emergency stairs.

“Good thing for you this is only three floors, in those heels,” he mutters to me in disap-

proval.

No kidding.

“Don’t you like the boots?”

“I like them very much, Anastasia.” His gaze darkens and I think he might say some-

thing else, but he stops. “Come. We’ll take it slow. I don’t want you falling and breaking

your neck.”

We sit in silence as our driver takes us to the gallery. My anxiety has returned full force, and

I realize that our time in Charlie Tango has been the eye of the storm. Christian is quiet and

brooding . . . apprehensive even; our lighter mood from earlier has dissipated. There’s so

much I want to say, but this journey is too short. Christian stares pensively out the window.

“José is just a friend,” I murmur.

Christian turns and gazes at me, his eyes dark and guarded, giving nothing away. His

mouth—oh, his mouth is distracting, and unbidden. I remember it on me—everywhere. My

skin heats. He shifts in his seat and frowns.

“Those beautiful eyes look too large in your face, Anastasia. Please tell me you’ll eat.”

“Yes, Christian, I’ll eat,” I answer automatically, a platitude.

“I mean it.”

“Do you now?” I cannot keep the disdain out of my voice. Honestly, the audacity of

this man—this man who has put me through hell over the last few days. No, that’s wrong.

I’ve put myself through hell. No. It’s him. I shake my head, confused.

“I don’t want to fight with you, Anastasia. I want you back, and I want you healthy,”

he says softly.

What? What does that mean? “But nothing’s changed.” You’re still fifty shades.

“Let’s talk on the way back. We’re here.”

The car pulls up in front of the gallery, and Christian climbs out, leaving me speech-

less. He opens the car door for me, and I clamber out.

“Why do you do that?” My voice is louder than I expected.

“Do what?” Christian is taken aback.

“Say something like that and then just stop.”

“Anastasia, we’re here. Where you want to be. Let’s do this and then talk. I don’t par-

ticularly want a scene in the street.”

I flush and glance around. He’s right. It’s too public. I press my lips together as he

glares down at me.

“Okay,” I mutter sulkily. Taking my hand, he leads me into the building.

We are in a converted warehouse—brick walls, dark wood floors, white ceilings, and

white pipe work. It’s airy and modern, and there are several people wandering across the

gallery floor, sipping wine and admiring José’s work. For a moment, my troubles melt

away as I grasp that José has realized his dream. Way to go, José!

“Good evening and welcome to José Rodriguez’s show.” A young woman dressed in

black with very short brown hair, bright red lipstick, and large hooped earrings greets us.

She glances briefly at me, then much longer than is strictly necessary at Christian, then

turns back to me, blinking as she blushes.

My brow creases. He’s mine—or was. I try hard not to scowl at her. As her eyes regain

their focus, she blinks again.

“Oh, it’s you, Ana. We’ll want your take on all this, too.” Grinning, she hands me a

brochure and directs me to a table laden with drinks and snacks.

How does she know my name?

“You know her?” Christian frowns.

I shake my head, equally puzzled.

He shrugs, distracted. “What would you like to drink?”

“I’ll have a glass of white wine, thank you.”

His brow furrows, but he holds his tongue and heads for the open bar.

“Ana!”

José comes barreling through a throng of people.

Holy cow!He’s wearing a suit. He looks good and he’s beaming at me. He enfolds me

in his arms, hugging me hard. And it’s all I can do not to burst into tears. My friend, my

only friend while Kate is away. Tears pool in my eyes.

“Ana, I’m so glad you made it,” he whispers in my ear, then pauses and abruptly holds

me at arm’s length, staring at me.

“What?”

“Hey are you okay? You look, well, odd. Dios mio, have you lost weight?”

I blink back my tears. “José, I’m fine. I’m just so happy for you.” Crap—not him, too.

“Congratulations on the show.” My voice wavers as I see his concern etched on his oh-so-

familiar face, but I have to hold myself together.

“How did you get here?” he asks.

“Christian brought me,” I say, suddenly apprehensive.

“Oh.” José’s face falls and he releases me. “Where is he?” His expression darkens.

“Over there, fetching drinks.” I nod in Christian’s direction and see he’s exchanging

pleasantries with someone waiting in line. Christian glances up when I look his way and

our eyes lock. And in that brief moment, I’m paralyzed, staring at the impossibly handsome

man who gazes at me with some unfathomable emotion. His gaze hot, burning into me, and

we’re lost for a moment staring at each other.

Holy cow. . . This beautiful man wants me back, and deep down inside me sweet joy

slowly unfurls like a morning glory in the early dawn.

“Ana!” José distracts me, and I’m dragged back to the here and now. “I am so glad you